


Do What It Takes to Survive

by aroacestronaut



Category: The Chronicles Of Vladimir Tod - Heather Brewer
Genre: Gen, I'm still salty about that, Multi, dorian is alive because if d'ablo gets to live dorian gets to live too, okay but like i've wanted to write d'ablo babysitting eddie for em for a long long time so now, there's this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8291329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroacestronaut/pseuds/aroacestronaut
Summary: D'Ablo knows Tomas and Vikas are going to kill him so he up and leaves the United States without a word, coming back a year later with the intention to participate in Bathory's cleansing and leave right after it. Too bad Vlad, Otis, and that ugly thing called fate have other ideas for him. He ends up banished from Elysia. And to add insult to injury, he needs to babysit Eddie.





	1. Chapter 1

D’Ablo knew they were going to kill him eventually, though wasn’t like they dropped hints. No, Vikas remained just as cold towards him as he’d been since they’d met centuries ago, and D’Ablo likewise. Tomas smiled knowingly, placed his hands in a friendly manner on D’Ablo’s shoulders, ran them down his arms and laced his fingers through D’Ablo’s in a way that made hope swell in his heart, swore that they would all rule together, invincible, eternal, the same promises he always made that tugged at D’Ablo’s century-long infatuation with him and wove D’Ablo back into his web of lies again and again and again.

But there was always that underlying knowledge that he wouldn’t live long enough to rule. He knew he wouldn’t live to see them succeed or fail. Vikas certainly didn’t like him, and Tomas wasn’t the type to share power. No, they’d be rid of him long before then.

What was a vampire as desperate for life as him to do, then? Certainly not roll over and die. He’d lived five hundred years doing whatever he could to keep breathing, keep his heart beating, fighting and surviving against all odds. He’d survive this, too, even if it meant taking the cowardly way out.

His disappearance causes a massive uproar in all of Elysia, though as the investigations proceed it’s clear he was planning it for a long time. As impulsive as he is, D’Ablo is a man of plans. He doesn’t just vanish into thin air without having every possible detail and outcome thought through, every course of action decided on.

Money first, and definitely the simplest. With his salary, it would have been ridiculous to keep all his money in one place, so he has multiple bank accounts, everyone of them under different names. Only one of them -- under D’Ablo della Vega -- is known to exist. Add two and two and get four.

Next comes transportation. His car would be too easy to track down. That would stay in his driveway. Besides, what use is a car when he needs to get across the ocean? D’Ablo buys himself a plane ticket directly to London, and if Tomas and Vikas find it strange that he’s taking a vacation at this point in time, to the very heart of the London Council city, with whom Stokerton has a strained relationship, they don’t say anything. Car rental would be organized there.

Most of his expensive suits remain in his closet. Instead, his suitcases are filled with books, sweaters, jeans, and comfortably shoes. Pairs of leather gloves join them, though he doesn’t have a pair of hands to wear them on. A part of him had hoped he’d find a way to get his right hand back, and he’d pored over books after book on the subject of vampire healing, but to his dismay he’d found that short of drinking Dorian’s blood -- something he wasn’t at all keen to do, for the sake of his mental state and his immense dislike for him -- or hiring another thief to steal Vlad’s blood, Vlad, who is undoubtedly more on his guard than he was two years ago, he can’t get it back.

He stands on his driveway for a half hour, gazing up at the walls of the house that is his latest home, the house he’d designed and helped build, tempted to knock on his neighbor’s door and give one last kiss to his cats, or even to take them with him, or even walk back in and forget this entire plan and take what’s coming.  
But the taxi pulls over, and the driver comes out and starts hauling D’Ablo’s suitcases one by one into the trunk. D’Ablo just watches him blankly, and the driver, looking slightly annoyed, asks if he’s ready to go. “Yes.” He crawls into the backseat and flashes the man his perfect politician’s smile. “Thank you.”

The drive is silent. D’Ablo makes it clear he doesn’t want to talk and stares out the window, drinking in for what is probably the last time the sights and sounds of Stokerton’s nightlife, the scantily clad women teetering on twelve inch heels and the flushed faces of drunken men, the pounding music from the clubs and the multicolored lights, all the lights. He’s a nightwalker and has never actually seen the life in Stokerton at night, and the ache in his chest grows so intense, the need to join them and drown his troubles in alcohol so overwhelming that it takes biting his bottom lip so hard it bleeds to keep him from telling the cabbie to turn around, take him back.

They reach the airport two hours before D’Ablo’s flight is to take off, and D’Ablo pays the man more than he should, but he needs to reach the check-in, needs to make sure his bags are on their way to the cargo hold of the plane where he can’t get them back until he gets to London, needs to make it the check-in before he turns around and walks the entire way home, suitcases in tow.

He breathes a barely audible sigh of relief, and some color returns to his cheeks once his bags are out of sight, and once through security (a vampire smiles at him knowingly and lets him pass with the knife in the sole of his shoe. D’Ablo only nods back, certain that this will be the last vampire to see him in the United States), and at the gate he sits, suddenly exhausted. He’d intended to set up his new phone and laptop, the old ones left behind to charge on his desk as if he’d taken a mere stroll through town, but it seems that won’t happen tonight.

The realization that this is happening hits him like a freight train. He’s leaving. He’s running away and he’s going to live, at least until he’s found again, and he has no doubts that he will be found and dragged before Tomas and Vikas but he’ll live for just a little longer, fight and breathe and laugh and feel for some more time. He’s going to live.

The flight is uneventful, outside of a child who doesn’t stop crying, reminding him of why he hates children in the first place. Thankfully, and fortunately for it, it falls asleep as D’Ablo narrows down the two best methods to silence it: throwing out of the plane or strangling it. A half-hour later, he too, is asleep.  
He wakes with a jolt and renewed vigor five hours later as soon as the plane touches the ground, and hurries off and to the baggage claim, yanking out his well-worn black overcoat, slipping into the bathroom to apply sunscreen since he doesn’t want a repeat of last year, through the gates and the entire Heathrow airport to the car rental. He needs to get out of England as soon as he can, find an arrangement where he doesn’t need to bring the car itself back to the airport but leave it somewhere in Europe where he won’t be charged for it.

  
Luck is on his side, it seems, and he manages to arrange just what he needs and leaves Heathrow airport in a tiny car, suitcases barely fitting in the trunk and the back seats. He’s careful to drive just over the speed limit -- the last thing he needs is to be stopped by a vampire police officer (he can just see the headline: Stokerton President’s Escape Plan Foiled by a Speeding Ticket!) and it would certainly arouse suspicion as to why he even left for London without a word to Em in the first place.  
But on his way to Norway -- Norway, because he’s notorious for hating temperatures below eighty degrees, and for his long-winded complaints about them, no one would expect him to hide there -- he stops by a pharmacy. There’s no point in running off if people still recognize him. One contouring palette and a pair of tinted contacts later, he’s back on the road.

  
The apartment is tall and grey and ugly, in the middle of a small grey city in the middle of nowhere, a far cry from his own house with its flourishing garden on the outskirts of Stokerton. The landlord himself isn’t the most trustworthy looking man (but then again, who’s D’Ablo to talk) and the second he lays on eyes on D’Ablo’s perfectly styled hair, the pressed expensive suit that won’t do him any favors here, and shiny shoes, D’Ablo’s entire appearance screaming wealth, a greedy glint lights up his eyes. That vanishes the instant D’Ablo spears him with a look that would discourage any funny business in even the most dishonest of con men. He’s never bothered dealing with any humans’ bullshit and he’s not about to start now.

  
But overall, the entire arrangement is perfect. The man doesn’t ask any questions, and no one would think to look for the flashy, luxury-loving council president in the middle of nowhere, Norway. In his room, he sits on the squeaky mattress, drumming his fingers and glancing around at the grey walls that enclose him in the tiny suite made of a kitchen, a bathroom, and one bedroom/living room. Then, as if jolted, he shoots to his feet.

  
If he wants to disappear, he needs a makeover. First things first. His waist-length blond ponytail will have to go.

  
It’s been a while since he was last in Norway and it takes him a bit to come up with the right words to ask the landlord where the barber shop is. The man takes one judgemental glance at D’Ablo’s hair and tries to give him complicated directions. D’Ablo’s tempted to ask what his problem with long-haired men is, but he’s at his mercy, as much as that leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and he doesn’t want to have to move to a less convenient place.

  
Finally he’s handed a map with the only barber shop in town circled in red ink. He steps out and opens his umbrella against the strong afternoon light, tucking his chin into his scarf against the cold air.

  
The exterior of the barbershop is just as grey as the rest of the town but the inside is warm and inviting and cheerful and clean. It’s also empty, save for a young man behind the desk who flashes him a dazzling smile, and that suits him just fine. The man approaches him and asks, “how may I help you?” in heavily accented English, and his smile only widens when D’Ablo responds in Norwegian. D’Ablo takes a quick glance at the other’s canines. They’re not overly long or sharp, as vampires’ teeth are when they’re retracted. He’s safe.

  
He’s seated and gives instructions, “whatever you want. I just need to look different,” and the man jokes about his being on the run. D’Ablo only hums in response and asks to get his hair dyed. If he’s going to change color, might as well do it correctly the first time and then try to learn at . . . home. He’s waiting for the dye to set when another man walks in; his haircutter greets him with an excited “Lukas!” then a “what’s wrong?”

  
D’Ablo turns his head just so to catch a glimpse of Lukas and his heart skips a beat. The man is handsome, all chocolate skin and broad shoulders and and tall, extremely tall, with arms that could snap him in half without effort-- just his type. He turns back to stare at his flushed face in the mirror and that’s somehow even worse than developing a crush on a stranger in a split second.

  
Lukas is talking in a voice as smooth as honey, but his perturbed tone makes D’Ablo tune in. “The Stokerton Council president has gone missing.” Now that is the best way to make his blood turn to ice. Not only that, but the free way Lukas is talking about it to the human means that he’s a drudge. Fuck. His plan might blow up in his face before it’s even come to life.

  
“Missing?” The human asks. “What do you mean?”

  
“I mean that no one has been able to contact him for hours. His house is empty, car still in the driveway. He up and disappeared without a trace. The Siberian president says that he was on his way to London but he never checked into a hotel there, and no one from the London Council has seen him. An employee at the airport that he went through security and nothing seemed to be amiss about how he looked.”

  
“He must have a reason.”

“Perhaps. But if he doesn’t come back soon, Stokerton will fall into disarray again, like three years ago.”

  
D’Ablo flinches at that. After he’d lost his presidency Stokerton had been unable to find a suitable replacement on such short notice. His organized council had descended into complete and utter chaos without someone to have the last word. He can only hope Em will find a suitable temporary replacement to make up for his absence. If he can even take back his presidency after pulling this stunt.

  
He watches as Lukas claps a friendly hand on his drudge’s shoulder, and quickly looks away when the man smiles at him. He wasn’t staring at his long, tapered fingers. Of course not.

  
“Hello! What do you think about it?”

  
D’Ablo swallows, unsure on how to answer. Finally, he settles on, “I agree with . . .” he jerks his chin in the drudge’s direction. He hadn’t learned his name. “ . . . him. If he’s gone without a word he must have a reason.”

  
Lukas shrugs. “Who knows what that man is thinking these days. Perhaps this is the newest bout of recklessness, and he expects Em to pick up the pieces like she did three years ago. Whatever it is, it certainly isn’t smart.”

  
D’Ablo keeps his face carefully devoid of indignance. If Mr. Asshole here knew that he’d left to avoid being murdered, he wouldn’t be talking like that. “He must have a reason,” he repeats lamely. “I doubt he means any sort of malice.”

  
Lukas smiles. “I never said he did. I’m just saying he probably didn’t think this through and will be surprised when he reappears to find Elysia in a panic.”

  
So, clearly, Lukas has no idea what his personality is like. D’Ablo only purses his lips and nods. Just like that, the conversation is over.

  
An hours later he walks out of the haircuttery, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck with his stump. He can’t remember the last time his hair was shorter than shorter-length, the last time his neck was exposed like this. It makes him feel vulnerable. He sucks in a breath, releases it slowly. Best get used to it.

  
But as he walks by a shop window he stops in his tracks to gape at his reflection. He can barely recognize himself. After filling in his eyebrows with black, using makeup to change the shape of his face, after the tinted contacts make his eyes go from grey-blue to brown, how much harder will doing so become?

  
A false ID is next. It takes some convincing to get the woman behind the counter to take his picture without too many questions, but after several thousand Norwegian Kroners he manages to buy her silence. And if the money doesn’t work . . . well, he knows who his next meal will be.

  
And just like that, Alexander Reed, amateur photographer and nature enthusiast is born. In the picture his smile looks like a pained grimace on a face pale with exhaustion and worry, not at all conveying the personality of an optimistic young man with a bright future ahead of him, but at least it’s an ID. He’s quick to leave, scowling down at the picture before pocketing it. He’ll need to buy some makeup, and maybe redo the photo if it proves not to be convincing enough.

  
Armed with a bronzer, black eyebrow pencil, and a lipstick to turn his bloodless lips a shade darker, blush to make him seem more alive, as human as possible (he’d never thought he’d want to look like a human), D’Ablo ascends the stairs to his apartment, still rolling his eyes at the drugstore cashier, who had joked that his girlfriend must have him by the balls if he’s buying her makeup. He tosses the entire array onto the bed; that can wait until he finds the right style for Alexander in the clothes he’d brought with him.

  
The first outfit is a leather jacket and loose jeans-- the latter of which he immediately scraps as they make him look either like a punk or a stoner. The entire ensemble, shitty jeans or no, doesn’t feel very Alexander Reed, amateur photographer and nature enthusiast.

  
The impromptu fashion show carries on well into the night. A few outfits look good on him but don’t fit the image he’s trying to convey, others fit Alexander but make D’Ablo look shitty. He still has standards for how he looks, goddamnit, and he is going to keep trying clothing on until he finds something that suits both him and Alexander.  
Finally, finally, he pulls on a long green sweater and black skinny jeans, and finds that they work for his needs, and what the fuck, the jeans make his legs look miles long and very, very, worthy of Lukas’ attention. Yet, the ensemble feels incomplete . . . he dives back into the pile of “maybe” clothing and resurfaces with a black jacket that he’d taken mental note of earlier. His lace-up boots, usually worn whenever he went to a club, complete the entire look and he smiles at his reflection, the first smile in hours.  
The makeup and tinted contacts are the final touch and right after filling in his eyebrows, swiping pinkish color on his lips, and he dares anyone to look at him and say that he’s the runaway president. After he changes his mannerisms to suit Alexander, no one will be able to associate this black-haired trendy young man with the infamous Stokerton Council President.

  
He sits heavily on the bed, blood pounding in his ears. This is happening. He’s going to live.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which D'Ablo demonstrates his tendency to make shitty decisions.

He’s not sure why he came back. His life in Norway, after a rocky few months, became a comfortable mix of marijuana, alcohol, books, and pining after Lukas but never actually doing anything about it. There was a small group of vampires that Lukas had introduced him to, and that kept him from missing Elysia too much. No one suspected that the private, yet opinionated, black-haired vampire was actually the presumed-dead council president who went missing the year before.

He can remember the uproar he’d caused by disappearing, all the Elysian news sites coming up with increasingly wild theories as to where he’d gone and why. Alien abduction remains his personal favorite, followed closely by his being an alien himself, sent down to Earth to keep tabs on the habits of humans to assist the alien invasion. It seems there are lunatic conspiracy theorists in every species. He hadn’t had that good a laugh in ages.

Even interviews Council presidents were posted, and reporters hounded his own council members for months on end. Those left him frowning for days. He’d almost hurled his bottle of scotch at the screen when Vikas promised that he had sent out his best trackers to find him -- _of course you did, you fucking bastard, can’t have me ruining your plan_ \-- and had flinched when his Vice President, now President by obligation until a permanent replacement was found, spoke about how Stokerton resources were stretched both in the source for him and the already strenuous usual duties. It had been a great relief when she had announced that they had called off the search for him.

What had really made him sick was watching his own mother getting up behind a podium and delivering a speech calling off all the searches from here on out. “If my son does not want to be found,” she’d said, “he will not be found.” The crowd murmured in surprise and she spoke over them, raising her voice slightly. “I do not believe he is dead. But if he’s left, he’s left for a reason. And we must respect that decision as we respected his decisions during his presidency. Thank you.” She’d left the stage then, with his sister at her side. He’d shut his computer screen with a whispered curse, and hadn’t opened any Elysian News since.

But word got around that the Slayers were planning a Cleansing, the vampire spies in the Society doing their job. It immediately became the subject of conversation among Lukas’ group of friends, and be extension his. He’d been zoning out in the middle of one of the conversation, joint hanging limply from his fingers, when Lukas mentioned Stokerton and he’d started so hard he nearly fell off the chair. “Sorry, repeat that?”

Lukas smiles. He’s always smiling, D’Ablo can’t think of a time he’d ever seen him frown. “The Cleansing that’s happening son? It’s at a small town near the Stokerton Council. I forget the name, but it is rather unique . . . after that Hungarian countess . . . Elizabeth something.”

“Bathory.” It isn’t a question, but Lukas answers anyway. “Yes. Why, you’ve heard of it? I didn’t know there were small towns near Stokerton, much less that they had so many vampires they warrant a Cleansing! I mean,” he prattles on, not noticing that D’Ablo visibly bites the inside of his cheek to correct him, that there is one vampire especially, “if you’re going to make a Cleansing so near Stokerton, might as well move into Stokerton. Make some Hell on Earth, right?”

That comment earns a few titters but D’Ablo had stopped listening. “Excuse me.” He stands abruptly, receiving a few curious looks, but now the group is used to him spacing out and acting funny. They chalk it up to the artist’s flightiness. Only Lukas acknowledges him, grabs his wrist, sending streaks of heat up his arm and all over his body in the best places. “We will see you next week.”

D’Ablo hopes he’s not blushing too hard. “Maybe. Yes. I don’t know.” He reluctantly shakes him off, and leaves, doesn’t turn around to see Lukas frown at his back, brow furrowed with worry.

Back at his apartment, D’Ablo paces, running his hand through hair that is in desperate need of being recut and redyed. No one had made the connection that Alex’s blond roots were the same color as the Council president’s, nor that a young man with dyed blond hair that kept quiet about his background showed up in Norway a night after D’Ablo had “vanished”. It’s likely nobody will grow suspicious if he goes back to blond, but he’s still paranoid as Hell.

It takes him hours to decide on a course of action, but if asked, he wouldn’t be able to explain the thought process behind his decision. He just knows he needs to go back. He needs to get there before the Cleansing.

He spends the next three days trying to pack, but he ends up yanking everything back out of his suitcases. He doesn’t know whether to go as D’Ablo or Alexander. Alex is surely safer. As D’Ablo, he can use his authority. Yet, he doesn’t want to be recognized as soon as he steps foot in somewhere that isn’t the middle of nowhere, Norway. But how good of an idea is it to show up at an airport with a false passport and documents? Decisions, decisions . . .

He’ll take the risk as Alexander. There’s no telling what the Slayers, Em, the Council, Vikas, Tomas, or Vlad will do if they recognize him.

After that, packing is easy. Some of his suits _do_ go into the bottom of the suitcase, though. He has the feeling he’ll need to look presentable. Last thing is finding a place for whatever he can’t bring with him. It is the easiest thing about his departure.

“Lukas, I need to . . . there was a family emergency and I can’t stay longer.” He swallows, collecting his thoughts into the well-orchestrated lie. “I already returned my key to the landlord. I’m moving back to the States, but with the suitcase weight limits there are a few things I can’t bring with me.” As he babbles, Lukas stands in the doorway, blinking blearily and looking dumbfounded. It hadn’t occurred to D’Ablo that he might have been asleep at . . . seven PM. Nevertheless, he plows on. “So do you mind if I leave a few of my belongings here? I’ll retrieve them someday soon, once everything’s settled-- you don’t have to! of course. I can find somewhere else if you don’t want to, or I can donate them--”

“Alex.” The moment his false name passes Lukas’ lips D’Ablo clamps his mouth shut. “Please, slow down. What happened?”

D’Ablo’s knuckles tighten on the handle of his bag. He needs to keep his story straight, or his life will become that much more complicated. “Family emergency. My brother called, he didn’t specify what the matter was but I need to get back to America as soon as I can.” It sounds as fragile as glass, this explanation. To Lukas, it must seem as thin as a spider web.

“Your . . . brother. You never mentioned you had a brother.” He can feel himself flush under Lukas’ gaze. Out of all the times he’d fantasized about receiving Lukas’ undivided attention, this isn’t the kind of situation he’d fantasized to be receiving it in.

“It never came up, so I never said anything.” Lukas nods, hums softly. D’Ablo wants to shake him. “It wouldn’t have anything to do, with the Cleansing? You seemed rather shaken yesterday night.”

“No!” D’Ablo squeaks, voice rising to a ridiculous pitch. “It has nothing to do with that! I’ll be several states over!” “Please don’t lie to me, Alex,” Lukas sighs, leaning against the doorway. D’Ablo’s mouth clamps shut so ridiculously fast it’s like it was never open at all. Lukas seems to have the _Make D’Ablo Shut Up talent_. It's something the entire council has coveted since he became president, and the answer was right here in Nowheretown, Norway. Lukas sighs again, straightening. “I’ll keep your things. Which ones are you leaving?”

Stunned, D’Ablo wordlessly hands over the suitcases -- two large ones, full of things that belonged to _D’Ablo_ , that, hopefully, Lukas wouldn’t grow curious about and blow Alexander’s cover. Even then, D’Ablo does have his real ID and passport, just in case. He’s sure that even if Lukas gets curious, a few expensive suits and skin products aren’t going to incriminate him.

“I . . . you . . . you don’t know how much this means to me. Thought I’d have to give them to the _landlord_ to keep--” he takes a breath. No time for small talk. “Thank you. I’ll come back to pick them up eventually. Probably within the next few months or so.” It’s his closest estimate, in case something goes horribly wrong.

“You’re quite welcome,” Lukas says slowly, still looking confused. D’Ablo can’t even blame him. He turns to leave, but LUkas catches his wrist. “Hey. Be careful. I don’t want to see your name on the list of the dead.”

D’Ablo bites the inside of his cheek. It’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to him, even if it’s directed at the fictional Alexander and not exactly at him. _I don’t want you to die_. It leaves him warm and fluttery inside, not exactly something he’s used to.

“Promise me that you’ll be careful, Alex.” D’Ablo opens his mouth and closes it again. He can’t promise that. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many things that can kill him . . . “I’ll do my best.”

“ _No_ , Alex. Promise me.”

He hesitates. “I . . . I promise. I’ll be careful.” It’s a promise that he can’t keep, won’t keep, even though whenever he promises something he has every intention to keep it. Not this. He can’t keep this. And despite the lie that must be clear in his eyes and voice, Lukas lets him go.

Two hours later, the plane takes off, leading into an uneventful, even quiet, flight. Despite that, D’Ablo can’t sleep. Upon landing at LaGuardia he’s quick to grab his bags and hail a cab, muttering the address to his old house. He ignores the nervous pounding of his heart.

Amazingly, the garden is still well-kept, green and bursting with life. The outside seems to be freshly painted. D’Ablo quickly checks for a _For Sale_ or _Sold_ sign, but finds none, and the house is dark and empty and still. No one has lived here since he left. He gestures to the driver to wait for him and tries his front door -- locked, of course -- and knocks. No one answers. His car isn’t in the driveway (though he hadn’t expected it to be), and he can’t help but wonder who is taking such good care of this place.

Then his phone chimes. He fumbles with it, almost drops it it startled him so much, but he manages to open the text without too much damage to himself of the phone.

It’s from Lukas. D’Ablo takes a moment to decide whether to open it. He does.

_[Msg]: The cleansing has been moved to today._  
_[Msg]: It should be starting in half an hour, if the rumors are true._

The last message makes his heart leap in his throat. Bathory is an hour away. He charges into the taxi. “Bathory,” he barks. “Double the fee is you floor it.” The man doesn’t need to be told twice, and in fourty minutes they arrive, doubtlessly breaking several traffic laws and possibly running over a family of deer. D’Ablo scrambles out, pushing a handful of fifties at him. “Do yourself a favor. Stay away from here.”

The man speeds off.

D’Ablo takes a deep breath and walks into town.


	3. Chapter 3

Bathory is a fucking battleground.

He’s barely gone three yards into the town and already he’s stepped over four bodies: three vampires, one human. Slayer or not, he can’t tell. He ignores them, though there is the niggling reminder that at least a third of the people currently fighting for their lives here are innocent, and that is difficult to disregard, the fact that they’re victims of systematic killing that not even his council would  _ think _ of doing.

“For the good of mankind” his ass.

He passes Dorian, who thankfully doesn’t notice him, and almost literally runs right into Vikas, but manages to avoid him by doing a funny-looking dance to keep from making any physical contact. Much to his great relief, Vikas doesn’t spare him a glance. He needs to get to Vlad, warn him about what the Russian and his father are planning for him. Walking straight into Tomas’ arms is the last thing he can afford.

To D’Ablo’s dismay, Vlad is all over the place and nowhere to be found. He sees the boy’s drudge -- Harold, Harry, whatever -- and starts towards him, his Alexander cover be damned, but a Slayer picks that moment to charge at him with stake held high. In the time it takes him to rip the woman’s arms off and leave her there to bleed to death, the boy has disappeared.

_ “Shit!” _ His curse attracts others’ attention and now there are two Slayers coming at him. One of them goes flying with their face caved in from a ferocious slap, the other falls on his ass while clutching his stomach, where D’Ablo had punched nearly straight through his gut. If he didn’t have more important things to do he might stay and toy with them, but now’s not the time. He stalks over the Slayer he’d slapped, fully prepared to wipe her off the face of the Earth.

A black combat boot smashes the woman’s skull and D’Ablo looks up and is greeted by Em’s blazing green eyes and the biggest scowl on her face he has  _ ever _ seen.

She slaps him. Hard. “Alright. I deserved that.” Then she backhands him across the face. “I’ll . . . grant you that.” But when she shifts her leg back to knee him in the groin he scrambles backwards, doubling over to protect the area. “I most certainly  _ do not _ deserve that!” He straightens, takes a cautious step forward when she puts her foot down. “Nice to see you again as well.”

She advances again and D’Ablo legitimately contemplates turning tail and running as fast as he can. “I thought you were  _ dead _ , you son of a BITCH!”

Not quite sure what to say to that, D’Ablo blinks at her, then stares at the spot right above her head to avoid eye contact. 

“And then your miserable ass shows up with new hair and clothing and start fighting people like you never disappeared into  _ thin! Air!” _

He opens his mouth to defend himself, but Em cuts him off. “You  _ left _ me and your council to go off on an extended vacation and change your look! You left us to hunt Tomas alone! Shitty time to go find yourself, D’Ablo!” Again he opens his mouth to protest but Em shoots him a look that screams  _ say one word and I’ll rip out your tongue. _ Dutifully, he clamps it shut again.

“And that boy claims he can hand Tomas over but he is still nowhere to be found! Your council fell into chaos the first time you lost your presidency, and the only reason I didn’t give you the boot _again_ after you lost your hand was to avoid just that! And you up and _leave_!”  
A Slayer seems to think this is a good time to attack them. With Em very nearly exploding with rage, and D’Ablo himself growing increasingly impatient by the second, there isn’t much of her left fifteen seconds later. Em resumes as if nothing happened, wiping blood off her cheek and only smearing it further. “We had to get Cratus in your seat to avoid Stokerton falling apart again!”

“ _ Cratus!” _ This time he’s unable to keep his mouth shut. “He can’t tell the difference between his leg and his little finger!”

“Well, he certainly has demonstrated better sense than you recently, considering he hasn’t vanished into thin air!”

He’s about to point out all the times Cratus showed a distinct lack of common sense (which still in now way compare to his own episodes) but something grabs hold of his mind and words die on his tongue.

_ Go home . . . stop fighting . . . put down your weapons . . . too much death, too much destruction, go home . . . _

He recognizes Vlad’s voice resonating through his head, laced with unfathomable power, he gasps, feels his feet move of their own accord, shuffling forward despite his best efforts to plant his heels, Em is shuffling along beside him, so angry that the veins are popping in her forehead, a Slayer on his other side, looking dazed, and then they finally come into view of the high school.

Vlad is on the front steps of the imposing building, arms outstretched, face streaked with tears. He’s saying something, indicating the body of a young woman sprawled on the steps, but D’Ablo doesn’t hear what he’s saying, though in his mind the boy’s voice is urging him to leave. It’s not important. Vlad’s eyes are blazing purple, his fangs extended and slicing into his lips, ginting in the strong moonlight, face twisted in an expression of pure, unadulterated pain.

It’s the most beautiful thing D’Ablo has ever seen.

Then his feet move again, heeding Vlad’s commands -- _go home, leave Bathory for good, forget what happened here, stop_ **_fighting_** \-- and he panics. No, he’s not done here, he has to warn Vlad, tell him that his father is not who he says he is and Vikas is far more dangerous than he seems and still he continues walking, shuffling off with the rest of the crowd of those who doesn’t belong here and _no!_ He can’t! He needs to stay in Bathory, Vlad doesn’t know what’s coming for him . . . D’Ablo doesn’t even know what to call _home_ anymore!

Just like that Vlad lets him go. D’Ablo freezes in his tracks. Em shoots him a confused look that quickly turns to the realization that he isn’t coming with her.

He backs away, one step, then another and another and another and then he’s running back through the crowd, pushing past Slayers and vampires but by the time he reaches Vlad’s house the boy is already walking in, going upstairs, and something tells him it’s Tomas so D’Ablo stops just outside the bedroom door, barely breathing so as to not make a sound.

It takes enormous effort to keep from charging in and interrupting Tomas, on the Alumno -- Pravus supporters,  _ sure _ \--  honorable cause, the “love” Tomas had for a woman he viewed as only good enough to bear him a child. He misses the next part of the conversation, however, because footsteps are sounding up the stairs and he has to make a mad dash for the bathroom down the hall, only poking his head out when he’s sure Vikas is inside the bedroom with Vlad and Tomas.

He creeps over soon enough to hear, “you’re monsters! Worse than D’Ablo ever was,” which of course makes him interested because he’s always an interesting topic for discussion.

At least until he’s written off as “rightly dispatched” ( _ you wish _ ) and having “lost faith”, when, really, he’d just figured that he qualified far more than them for godhood, and he also really didn’t fancy dying when he’d served his purpose.

After hearing about Enrico’s death, D’Ablo’s had enough. He’d never liked the man either but he hadn’t deserved that death. As he walks through the living room, the young girl laid out on the couch catches his eye. He sniffs. If this is Vlad’s new girlfriend, he gives the relationship about five years, tops.

Outside, the humans are already hard at work -- Lord, they’re resilient creatures -- and D’Ablo watches a middle-aged woman move the body of a young man, straighten and wipe sweat off her forehead before heading over to pick up the next one. She’s pale, and D’Ablo knows that this job is going to haunt her for years, possibly the rest of her life. So he walks to her, puts his hand on her shoulder and gently steers her away, telling her to get water and some rest, between now and a few hours the bodies will have only grown stiff, and they’re certainly not going anywhere. It takes some mind control as encouragement but eventually she leaves.

With nothing else to do short of wait and see, D’Ablo gets to work moving the corpses. He’ll regret it if he leaves now and misses the aftermath of Tomas’ revelation, he knows. What will the boy do, now that he’s aware of Tomas’ lies?

And besides, the reason Vlad’s order for him to go home had failed is because D’Ablo essentially doesn’t have a home. He can’t go back to his American house and back to his old life as if he’d never left. No one would let that slide. The easy answer is to go back to Norway, but all he’d done there was pine after Lukas and die of boredom without anyone to lead, no paperwork to complete, no Em on his ass. He hadn’t even needed to work -- with his council savings, he could go  _ decades _ without a job -- so all he could do was get high and fantasize about Lukas’ lips on his own.

A door slams and D’Ablo unceremoniously drops the body of a rat-faced man that still smells like cheese despite being covered in blood. He sees Vlad run out of his house, and a couple of seconds later, Tomas and Vikas leave too, heading in the opposite direction. D’Ablo backs behind the building he was laying the bodies against.  They walk past his hiding place without sparing him so much as a glance.

Once he’s sure they’re gone, D’Ablo heads in the general direction Vlad went. Tomas and Vikas have laid their cards out. Maybe he can help Vlad choose his wisely, even if his assistance won’t be well received.

By the time he’s figured out where Vlad  _ is _ , the Slayer boy and the drudge are locked in a heated battle with Vikas. Tomas and Vlad are nowhere to be seen. Vlad’s drudge goes flying when Vikas catches him with a ferocious blow and the Slayer follows soon after. D’Ablo spares no concern for them, actually, he snorts at the drudge’s quip about his grandmother hitting harder than him. 

Vikas advances on the boys. It’s now or never.

D’Ablo isn’t a big man, more skin and bones than actual muscle, but Vikas stumbles and falls on impact, rolling backwards until they come to a stop with D’Ablo straddling him, hand tightening around his throat. D’Ablo feels a sick sense of satisfaction as Vikas turns blue -- “I’ve been waiting to do this forever, you son of a bitch” -- but then Vikas knocks the wind out of him when he strikes his sternum with the flat of his palm, shattering the bone. D’Ablo coughs once, painfully, pain flaming in his chest, and Vikas flips them over, landing a wicked blow to D’Ablo’s nose. And again to his face. And again and again and again.

D’Ablo’s cheekbones crack and break, fangs slice into his lips and blood streams down his face from his nose, mouth. He can barely breathe from Vikas’ weight, his broken sternum. Somehow, his swinging fist catches Vikas’ temple and Vikas tumbles off of him. D’Ablo jumps to his feet, head swimming from the pain in his sternum, hardly able to move his head, the muscles connecting to the broken bone bruised. Vikas stands too, glaring at him in a way that makes D’Ablo want to turn tail and run in the opposite direction.

“You came back.” The Russian doesn’t try to hide his satisfaction and disgust.

“Yes.” No time, no energy, and he’s not clear-headed enough to come up with a sarcastic comment. Besides, they both know one of them isn’t going to walk away.

Somewhere behind D’Ablo the Slayer boy whispers loudly to Vlad’s drudge, “who’s that”, and the drudge answers, “no fucking way.” D’Ablo doesn’t hear the rest of the exchange, but he does roll his eyes. When someone tackles the mad vampire who’s attacking you, it’s usually a good sign to run.

“Tomas missed you,” Vikas continues, a sickly sweet smile on his face. And despite himself, D’Ablo feels a pleased pang in his chest, heart fluttering in excitement. Not even his crush on Lukas could kill his infatuation with Tomas, his desperate need for approval by the perfect vampire.

“Shut up.” Those two words absolutely kill him as they pass his lips. “I know what you two were planning for me.”

An ugly look crosses Vikas’ face then, all attempts to charm him back into Tomas’ web dropped. Vikas had always advocated to get rid of him, D’Ablo knows. Playing nice was in Tomas’ agenda. “Of course you did. I kept telling Tomas you wouldn’t sit still and play by his rules. You’re too intelligent for that.”

D’Ablo gets the feeling that wasn’t a compliment. “If he didn’t figure that out the moment I went against his plans that’s his problem.”

“No,” Vikas grumbles, probably the only time in the history of their relationship that he’s ever agreed with D’Ablo. Mark the date. “It’s an extra loose end to tie.” He says something else, but D’Ablo’s not listening anymore. He’s caught sight of something tumbling off the side of the school building, a little . . . black cylinder . . . and it’s glowing . . .

“Oh,  _ hell _ no.”

Vikas turns around just as D’Ablo scrambles to the far end of the parking lot, pain in his sternum forgotten. A loud, ugly squelch cuts through the air and D’Ablo drops into a ball and covers his head, as if that could stop the Lucis from shearing his limbs off . . . but when he doesn’t feel anything other than the previously present pain, when he realizes that all his remaining body parts are in the right place, he looks up, cautiously glances around.

He immediately wishes he hadn’t. He can see from where he is the damage done to what was Vikas, hears the nauseated groans of the two boys somewhere to his right. He cautiously steps forward, as if the two halves could come together and attack him, to take a closer look at the charred skin, the pool of blood, the internal organs spilling out of his body cavities in twisted, fleshy loops.

Then he promptly vomits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very respectful, d'ablo. just go ahead. puke in vikas' guts.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Why the fuck are the Stokerton Council’s holding cells so cold and cramped? _ D’Ablo has asked himself this a million times, and every time he remembers that it’s because he himself had made them so that they’d be as uncomfortable as possible. When he was thrown in here, Vlad and Otis had been kind enough to replace the usual hay with a blanket and mattress (the former of which he’s taken to cocooning himself in) but after that, he was left to his own devices.

Which, honestly, aren’t very fucking much.

He stops pacing and leans against a wall, sliding down it and reviewing once again the events that led to him getting locked in his own council’s dungeons.

After he’d emptied the contents of his stomach into Vikas’ guts, he’d looked up fast enough to see Vlad touch down on the ground, looking even sicker than D’Ablo felt. It took one glance at the stake in the boy’s hand, coated in all-too-familiar-smelling blood, to know why.

At that moment the world had come crashing down. He’d darted past Vlad even as Otis had made a grab for him, past the body of Vlad’s guardian, ran in the only direction he knew could take him up to the roof. The wooden boards blocking the exit to the roof were no match for his strength and he’d stumbled out into the warm night air, and the smell of blood hit his nose instantly.

He draws a deep, shuddering breath, dragging himself back into the present. That’s enough. He’s gone over the events over and over again, and still his situation doesn’t change.

A loud clang makes him look up -- the steel doors at the end of the hall opening and closing, allowing access into the dungeons -- and two sets of footsteps echo down the hall. Two vampires come to a halt in front of himself, grim-faced and intimidating. D’Ablo regards them coolly, though in his head he immediately dubs them Grumpy One and Grumpy Two. No doubt they’ve come to retrieve him.

“How may I help you?”

The two exchange a look that D’Ablo can’t read, and somehow he doesn’t think they’re using telepathy. Then, they unlock his cell door and step in, reaching out for him. D’Ablo scrambles to his feet, blanket slipping from his shoulders, goosebumps instantly erupting all over his arms. Panicked thoughts run through his head-- they’re Alumno, they’re not here to retrieve him, someone has taken charge and these men are here to tie up a loose end, they’re here to finish him off as he’s one of the few who can still give names and faces--

He’s barely stood when Grumpy One reaches him and grabs his wrist in an iron grip, causing D’Ablo to cry out. He struggles against the man but is smashed into the wall instead -- dazed from the impact on his head, D’Ablo slows, allowing ample opportunity for the other vampire to grab his handless arm.

As they drag him out he continues to struggle, swearing loudly until one of them, he can’t tell who, clamps his hand over his mouth, muffling his curses. Still, D’Ablo drags his heels into the cold stone of the dungeons and then the polished wood a hallway just outside of them, but that serves nothing to delay the inevitable. They’re going to drag him into some room, tie him up and gag him, beat him up a little before staking him through the heart in his own council building.

They shove him into a room -- the restroom, maybe they’ll kill him in the shower, where they can then wash the blood down the drain so they have a greater head start to escape before someone finds his body -- and he whirls around, arms free and up to defend himself, mouth open to scream at the top of his lungs, when one of them slaps him across the face, effectively silencing him. The next second, he’s pressed hard against the mirror, sink digging painfully into the small of his back, the man’s hand clapped firmly over his mouth again. The other vampire has to restrain his arm to keep from scratching his captor’s eyes out.

“We’re not here to kill you,” Grumpy One says calmly. D’Ablo scowls at him as best as he can with his eyes and continues to struggle, cocking his leg back to knee him in the groin before the man stomps hard on his foot. The man sighs and speaks again, “we merely came to help you prepare for your trial.” He can clearly see that now he has D’Ablo’s attention, and the corner of his mouth lifts a tiny bit. “If I let you go, will you scream? Truthfully, I don’t much like this position.”

D’Ablo can’t quite see what’s not to like about being pressed up against him -- after all, he has  _ amazing _ thighs, and have you  _ seen _ his abs -- but he has to agree that the sink digging into his back isn’t all that comfortable. Slowly, he nods, and the man pushes off. Grumpy Two also lets go of his arm. D’Ablo peels his back from the mirror and regards them both warily, rubbing at his cheek where Grumpy One had slapped him and no doubt left a hand-shaped mark. “Alright,” he says in a simpering tone. “How may I help you?”

The two roll their eyes in sync, as if to say  _ this one’s going to be difficult. _ How observant.

Grumpy Two gets straight to the point. “Your trial is tomorrow at two AM sharp.”

“Trial. On what charges?” He can imagine what they are, but he also wants to know if he’s being convicted for crimes from before he’d met Vlad.

“We can’t tell you. But apparently, Mr. President, you are guilty of a few shady crimes.”

D’Ablo wants to reply with “who isn’t?” but he doubts that’ll help his case. “And you brought me here because . . . ?” Truthfully, he’s not at all familiar with the pre-trial process. Criminals are brought in front of him, he gets some background, and dishes out a sentence. He’s never experienced first-hand.

Now Grumpy One answers. “Frankly, you’re lacking a bit in hygiene after being locked up for a week.”

Well, no shit. He can’t remember the last time he smelled this foul. Oh, wait. It was the trenches during WWI.

“You need to be prepared for your trial, which means shower, shave,” Grumpy One regards D’Ablo’s black-and-blond hair, “and haircut.”

“I could have reached that conclusion myself.” He goes to rub at his twisted arm, momentarily forgetting he’s missing a hand. “Alright. You may leave.”

The two don’t move. D’Ablo sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Am I on suicide watch or something?”

“That’s the idea. And after you shower we need to frisk you for potential weapons you may have picked up in there.” The man says it so blankly it’s impossible to tell whether he finds that funny or takes it seriously. As for D’Ablo, he can’t quite see how a shampoo bottle can qualify as a weapon unless your enemy is especially sensitive to loud noises, but apparently rules are rules. He strips down, “try not to enjoy the show  _ too _ much,” and goes to close the shower curtain.

Grumpy Two catches it. “Sorry. Must remain open.”

“You’re  _ fucking _ with me.”

“How do I know you’re not going to poison yourself with conditioner?” So Grumpy Two thinks he’s a regular comedian. D’Ablo rolls his eyes and huffs as the man pulls it all the way open. He doesn’t even like showering with people he’s in a relationship with. Now he’s under observation of two complete strangers. Fantastic.

It’s the fastest shower of his life, even if it’s the first in a week. He’s even quicker at toweling off, and the two get to business frisking him, running their hands lightly over his skin. Grumpy One pauses on the back of D’Ablo’s thigh, where the skin is hard and twisted from the time D’Ablo had gotten a fishing hook stuck in it, a long story which D’Ablo has to explain in detail before the man is convinced that he doesn’t have a shampoo bottle shoved in there and proceeds. The other checks D’Ablo’s mouth and backs off. Grumpy Two soon follows suit.

D’Ablo waits for someone to hand him clothing, god damn it, because like hell is he going to wear the clothing he wore for the past week, but to his surprise they merely hand him a robe. “No point,” Grumpy One explains, “in dressing if you’re going to get hair all over yourself.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“You know Cruella de Vil? One Hundred and One Dalmatians?”

D’Ablo thinks that sounds like an unreasonable amount of dogs but doesn’t say anything. The man sighs. “You look like a skunk. Come along.”

He really could have just said so. None of this “Cruel d’Evil” bullshit.

The barber makes short work of his hair, which had grown long enough to pull into a tiny ponytail, shaving it off on the longest setting of the razor and effectively getting rid of all the black, leaving him his natural white-blond. D’Ablo would have rather looked like a skunk than look like he has yellow fuzz growing out his head.

To his horror, the barber switches to one of the shortest settings on the razor and attacks the sides and back of his head. In the end, his hair is longer on the top and front. Much to his chagrin, he has to admit he doesn’t look half bad. It makes his face look more angular, his jaw stronger. He thanks the man and stands. Grumpy One and Two move to grab his arms and D’Ablo pointedly crosses them in front of his chest. “I can walk. Where to?”

“Fourth floor. The apartments.”

“The Adams wing.” Literally an apartment complex within the building, for when council members are too busy to go home or it’s just too late in the day to do so safely.

He’s the one leading them after they take a wrong turn despite D’Ablo’s protests that as the president and someone who designed the place he would  know where everything is. They follow him sheepishly, but are quick to open the door to what is unofficially his vice-president’s room. It’s currently bare of any personal items, which D’Ablo finds odd, and on the bed is the suitcase he’d brought with him, seemingly untouched. He finds that even the contents look undisturbed, everything neatly folded and toiletries in their proper place, but when he feels along the seams he notes that the knives in the lining are gone.

With a sigh, he drops the robe -- they’ve watched him shower, he has no reason for shame -- and picks out a warm shirt and loose, comfortable pants. He hears the door close behind him, and though he has no way of knowing it, he has the feeling it’s being locked with a glyph.

So he’s sleeping here tonight, comfortable and warm before he’s brought to trial.  _ A rather twisted version of a prisoner’s last meal _ , he thinks.

D’Ablo doesn’t have much else to do but sleep, so he sheds his clothes and crawls into bed, sighing blissfully at the feeling of the sheets sliding against his skin. If he’s going to die, let him die smothered in this bed.

He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep is the best way to prepare for a trial didn't you know?


	5. Chapter 5

Someone must have come in during the day because when D’Ablo wakes from a constant replay of post-Cleansing events, there’s to plastic cups on the bedside counter. He blinks sleep from his eyes and looks into them. In one there’s water, in the other, blood. O-Negative, from the scent of it, a scent that sends his stomach growling. He hasn’t eaten since Norway.

Gingerly, muscles stiff from sleep, he sits up in bed and downs both of them, then leans back against the pillow, looking around the room. There’s a fresh outfit on the foot of the bed, and his suitcase is in the corner. D’Ablo closes his eyes.

His trial is at two AM, and he can guess what his charges will be. Assault, on both Otis and Vlad. He chews his lip. If he can bring together the four men who had followed him out of the council building the night that Vlad shot a hole through him, he can argue self defense for the first occasion. After all, Otis had charged at him first, and he’d gotten away with a broken cheekbone, and Vlad had gotten out with broken ribs and some mental trauma. D’Ablo had barely clawed his way out of it alive. He can argue at that point that he’s the victim, but the defense is shaky and no one on the council is  _stupid._  D’Ablo may have gotten out of it worse off, but he’d definitely instigated it.

And what about the experiment with the stake? He doesn’t know if they’ll have the Slayer boy testify. Although D’Ablo covered his tracks rather well -- he’d payed Joss in cold, hard cash and Vlad had lost too much blood to make any of his comments truly  _valid_  -- he’s sure Otis will find a way to bring the experiment up and use it against him.

Or maybe that’s just paranoia talking.

Now, the third occasions, which D’Ablo has mentally dubbed  _‘when everything went to shit’_  . . . well, that’s the most damning of anything he’s done to the two of them. He knows he’ll be charged with manslaughter (though he’d prepared an impenetrable self-defense argument in the hospital following the full body burn) and everything else under the sun. He could try to place himself as the victim, but who was going to believe that after he’d carved Otis up worse than a Thanksgiving turkey?  _‘I thought you still posed a threat to me, Your Honor, so I continually incapacitated you for my own safety.”_  He laughs, though it’s not all that funny.

The only relief here is that they can’t charge him for sending Ignatius without bringing the entire Stokerton Council to trial. Besides, anyone can testify that he didn’t want to send the bounty hunter, and that it was only on majority vote that he signed the contract.

At least on one aspect, he’s safe.

Either way, he’s looking at the death penalty . . . or at the very least, an “eye for an eye” arrangement. Otis is legally permitted to repay him for those ten months of torture with an equal amount or more. D’Ablo wouldn’t put it past him, honestly. Otis, for all his kindness and gentle nature, can be incredibly vengeful. D’Ablo is dependent on the merciful nature of a man who hates him more than anything.

That is just too depressing to think about. He rolls over and goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

D’Ablo wakes two hours before his trial, parched and not feeling any better about his prospects than he did before his nap. There’s nothing to do now but shower and make himself presentable.

The bathroom is a fancy, comfortable room with cheery wallpaper and a clean porcelain sink and bathtub, and there it’s devoid of everything but a floor mat and hand towels. No shower curtain, no bathrobe. Nothing. Nothing . . . it dawns on him that there’s nothing he can use to wrap around his neck and hang himself with. A quick check of the tub confirms that there’s no drain plug-- he can’t drown himself either. Not that either hanging or drowning will kill a vampire, but a coma is entirely possible.

D’Ablo’s on suicide watch. D’Ablo, who has always done and will do whatever it takes to survive.

Clearly, whoever stripped this bathroom knows shit about him.

D’Ablo showers anyway, turning the water on as hot as it will go (not even enough to make steam), occasionally marveling at how short his hair is and how it feels to run his hand through it. His mind runs seventy miles a second, thinking about his defense, nitpicking and modifying, and wondering whether or not they’ll charge him for pre-Vlad crimes as well. Any vampire is guilty of a few minor crimes -- one-night stands with humans are common, or accidentally animorphing in front of one -- but D’Ablo’s are a bit more major than that.

However, he concludes that they’re nothing worth noting. Otis’ priority will be convicting him for Jasik’s death, probably, so that’s where D’Ablo focuses his energy.

When he walks out of the shower, completely naked and rubbing his hair with a hand towel, he finds Grumpy One and Two waiting for him. D’Ablo rolls his eyes. “You again.” They don’t acknowledge the comment and instead stand stiffly, with their arms crossed. Grumpy One is staring at the stump at the end of his arm, and D’Ablo pointedly walks up to him, shoving it in his face. “Take a good, long look--” he rotates his arm, giving every angle of the stump-- “and then stop staring. I know it’s fascinating, like everything about me, but learn some self control.”

The man’s eyes flicker downward, embarrassed, and D’Ablo turns to the other one. “You want a look, too?”

“I’ll have to decline, Mr. della Vega.”

“Good.” D’Ablo starts getting dressed, quickly slipping on underwear and pants, before starting on the long process of buttoning his shirt. Grumpy One takes over, and D’Ablo almost bites his head off, snapping that he can take care of him. The man points out that if they leave D’Ablo to his own devices they’ll be here until Christmas. D’Ablo huffs but drops his hand, letting the man take care of it.

“You couldn’t tell me what my charges are, at least?”

“Not allowed to.”

D’Ablo sighs. It was worth a try.

Grumpy One also ties his tie and buttons his coat, and even tries to help him with his shoes before D’Ablo gives him a pointed look. Let him keep a final shred of his dignity. Once he’s completely dressed, the two grab his upper arms. “Is this really necessary.”

No answer.

“Try not to get lost this time.”

Grumpy Two opens the door and they march off to the courtroom.

 

* * *

 

Vlad had only seen the council meeting room and D’Ablo’s office on his previous visits to Stokerton’s council building, and as he sits beside where Otis would hand down D’Ablo’s sentence, he marvels again at how big the building really is. He and Otis had gotten the tour of the full hidden and underground network of rooms and hallways by Cristina, D’Ablo’s Vice President and now Cratus’. She had spoken quietly but had been so coldly polite that her opinion of them was made clear. Cratus explained later that there hadn’t been a time when Cristina and D’Ablo didn’t have each other’s backs and such a sudden change in leadership had rocked her. He’d said that the entire council felt the same way, a simmering resent towards Vlad and Otis, but it would fade.

Not a comforting thought, that one of Elysia’s most powerful councils hated Vlad’s and his uncle’s guts.

Needless to say, none of them but Cratus would be present at this trial. It’s also the reason that Otis would act as judge and lead the trial. Cratus might be impartial, but they can’t count on Stokerton to do the same.

The large double doors at the end of the courtroom open without a sound and D’Ablo walks in, between two bailiffs. Rather than being led by them, he looks like he’s leading, and the impression is only furthered when he pulls himself impatiently out of their grasp and walks ahead. Vlad’s heart speeds up for a second and his vision flickers-- he can see D’Ablo charging at him, fangs bared and fingers curled into claws ready to dig into his skin, the two bailiffs unable to catch him in time before he tears into Vlad-- but D’Ablo only sits at the stand, crosses his legs, and stoically stares straight ahead.

Vlad walks over. D’Ablo only glances at him once and goes back to staring at the judge’s chair. It must be surreal, for him, to look at a place which he must believe is rightfully his.

Vlad sighs. “You look better than when I last saw you.” His voice is strangled and high-pitched, too aware of how awkward this whole situation is.

“As the last time you saw me I passed out after a severe emotional breakdown, I would  _hope_  I look better.” At that, Vlad flinches. D’Ablo had come to Tomas’ funeral, a courtesy Vlad had extended to him after considering all the unspoken history the two had and how he’d had to pry Tomas’ body from D’Ablo’s grip after the vampire ran up to the roof. D’Ablo had straight up fainted towards the end of the funeral as Tomas’ body went up in flames, nearly toppling into the fire himself. A few members of the Stokerton Council carried him out, some looking only too glad for an excuse to leave.

“Um . . . sorry about that.”

As D’Ablo rolls his eyes, people start trickling into the room. The trial’s going to start soon, but Vlad searches for something more to say. “Nice haircut?”

“You don’t need permission to compliment me.”

“Um . . . no, I just-- in Bathory, you kind of looked like my da-- me, for a second, with the black dye and all--”

“Well,” D’Ablo says curtly, “thankfully I’m not your father.”

“Yeah. No, it was just . . . weird.”

D’Ablo opens his mouth -- probably to serve a scathing insult -- but a shadow falls over them both. While they’d been having the one-sided conversation Dorian had walked in and made his way over. D’Ablo groans. “Proof that God doesn’t exist. Right here.”

The copper-haired vampire grins. “Did you pray for me to die a slow and painful death again?”

“Always.”

“You realize that maybe you’re asking too much? You can maybe settle for me dying, and leave the how to God.”

“Go big or go home.”

Vlad looks back and forth between them, confused, then settles on D’Ablo. “You’re religious?” For some reason, he hadn’t pegged D’Ablo as the type to kneel in church and pray.

D’Ablo snorts. “Merely hopeful.”

“You’d think he’d have learned by now.” Dorian shakes his head.

“If I lose hope it means giving up on the possibility that you will die in my lifetime.”

It’s almost two, Vlad notes, and as if he’d read Vlad’s mind, Dorian claps a hand on D’Ablo’s shoulder. D’Ablo visibly recoils and swipes at it as if it were an enormous tarantula and not just a hand. “Well, I’m going to take a seat. Good luck.” Dorian grins knowingly. “You’re going to need it.”

D’Ablo scowls at his back and mutters something about only needing his intelligence, then turns to Vlad. “Run along now. Not much time.”

Vlad wonders if D’Ablo is reassuring himself that it’ll be over soon.

He’s barely sat down when Otis sweeps in and the bailiff calls for them to “all rise”. If Vlad hadn’t seen Otis practice walking in those long, black judge’s robes without tripping over them he might be intimidated. The no-nonsense walk and the serious scowl on Otis’ face is enough to make a hush fall over the room. As for D’Ablo, he doesn’t twist around to watch Otis, but when he walks into his line of sight, D’Ablo follows him with his gaze. Almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw twitches, the only sign of irritation that D’Ablo demonstrates at Otis’ taking his seat.

A pin drop would echo as Otis sits and rearranges his files under D’Ablo’s hot, displeased glare. Vlad watches him bite his lip and take a deep breath.

“We are here for the trial of defendant D’Ablo della Vega, who comes before us tonight under the charges of assault, battery, and first degree manslaughter. Mr. della Vega, how do you plead?”

D’Ablo doesn’t look surprised. Instead, he crosses his legs and lifts his chin, his face impassive. “Guilty of all charges but one.”

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.


	6. Chapter 6

All around D’Ablo there are horrified gasps and outraged exclamations for reasons he can’t quite fathom. It’s not like he said “ _ I like killing babies!” _ or  _ “chocolate isn’t all that great”. _ He’d pleaded not guilty on the charge of killing Jasik.

What D’Ablo doesn’t know, however, is that the dirty facts of his and Vlad’s relationship became public knowledge while he was sitting in his council’s dungeons, sometime after Tomas’ funeral. It hadn’t taken long for vampires to start questioning why the former council president had been incarcerated and Otis had released details, beginning with Vlad’s . . . well, existence, and ending with D’Ablo’s successful attempt to sentence him to death via trial. True to the man’s nature, the account had been unbiased, told from an objective point of view, but it had caused an uproar throughout Elysia.

Thankfully, Elysian trials don’t involve a jury, or D’Ablo would have been fucked for sure.

To D’Ablo’s immense satisfaction Otis takes visible effort to pick his jaw off the floor after D’Ablo’s  _ not guilty _ plea. He clears his throat and asks, “what would that charge be?”

“First degree manslaughter. My actions were in self-defense.”

Vlad casts an incredulous look in Otis’ direction.  _ Yes, boy, you’d better believe it. _ Otis can merely echo, “self defense?”

“Why, yes,” D’Ablo says brightly. “You see--” he stands-- “Jasik, the vampire I  _ allegedly _ killed, was attacking me. But  _ not _ out of his own volition. It was  _ your _ nephew, Otis -- that’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the young man sitting to Sir Council’s right -- who was urging him, via mind control, into knocking me to the ground--” D’Ablo had hit his head on something hard, causing his vision to swim and had barely managed to catch the knife before it plunged into his chest “--and driving him to stab me in the heart with a twelve-inch blade!” It was more like seven inches, but twelve has so much more impact. He can see the words sinking into the audience. If Otis sentences him to death now, he’ll have a riot on his hands, vampires calling out for Vlad’s blood.

Now, to play the sympathy card.

“Not only that, but before I defended myself, Vladimir caused Jasik severe mental trauma.”

Vlad’s brow furrows and he opens his mouth, but D’Ablo interjects before he can speak, looking him in the eye. “When two vampires fight over the control of one mind, as you and Jasik did, one of them is bound to win unless the other backs off. The loser will suffer brain damage. His mind will  _ snap _ like a twig-- do you remember Jasik’s nosebleed, Vladimir?”

Looking sick, Vlad nods.

“That’s what you did to him. At that point, you had complete control. Had I left my fate in your hands you would have taken him further and murdered me -- the perfect murder, because my blood wouldn’t have been on your hands. You would have slipped away and let Jasik, at that point reduced to a vegetable and unable to speak for himself, to deal with the consequences of murdering a fellow vampire. You would have used his body to kill me even if I disarmed him.” D’Ablo turns to the council members.  “My actions were in self-defense. Of the charge of first-degree manslaughter, I am innocent.”

Silence hangs, and D’Ablo’s heart begins to beat hard, thinking perhaps he’d laid it on too thick. But to his surprise, Vikas’ replacement speaks first. “I move to clear Mister della Vega of the charge of first-degree murder. All in favor, say  _ aye _ .”

A smattering of  _ aye _ s follows, enough to clear D’Ablo of the death sentence. He releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and sits down, knees suddenly turned to jelly. Vlad and Otis exchange stunned looks, as if they’re not quite sure what happened, and although D’Ablo ought to feel satisfied over this win, he can’t bring himself to smile. It’s too early to sing the song of victory.

Otis recovers and shuffles his notes. “On the charges of assault and battery, I call Vladimir Tod to the stand.”

D’Ablo’s relieved expression melts, turning into a fearsome scowl, covering the way his heart leaps nervously, how the palm of his hand starts sweating, his knuckles turning white on the armrests of his chair. Vlad slowly makes his way to the stand, and D’Ablo notes that he looks almost as nervous as he did last year during his own trial.

“Mr. Tod, when did you first meet the defendant?”  
Vlad wets his lips. “Um . . . Spring 2005.”

“Where?”

“Here. Um. The Stokerton Council building.”

D’Ablo’s beginning to think that there ought to be a class in high school on  _ eloquence _ .

“Why were you here?”

“D’Ablo . . . um, Mister della Vega . . . “

“Hearsay,” D’Ablo snaps. For fuck’s sake, the boy  _ lives _ with Otis. Didn’t they rehearse this?

Otis huffs. “Mr. Tod, I asked why  _ you _ were there, not what Mister della Vega was doing.”

“Yeah, sorry. I was to be punished for my dad’s relationship with my mom.”

“You’re father’s . . .” Otis raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry. Tomas Tod’s relationship with a human, Mellina Anderson.”

“So,” D’Ablo interrupts. “We’ve established I was doing what the law mandated me to do.”

“No one is questioning that, Mister della Vega,” Otis says. “It’s how you went about apprehending him.” He turns back to Vlad as D’Ablo indulges in a mental fantasy that results in both of them hacked to bits.

“What happened after you left the building, Mr. Tod?”  _ You _ , D’Ablo notes, not  _ we _ . Otis Otis, master of distancing himself from awkward situations.

“Um . . . he showed up with four of his men. He had them restrain you, and then he slapped you.”

“After the good Sir Council charged at me with harmful intent--”

“And then he turned to me.” Vlad pushes on as if D’Ablo hadn’t spoken. “He slapped me too -- broke my cheekbone -- and then some of my ribs when I was down.”

“I’ll have the council know that he was resisting arrest,” D’Ablo growls through gritted teeth. Some council members are unable to suppress snickers, others frown. Otis keeps his face impassive. “Mr. Tod, had you done anything that night to provoke Mister della Vega into attacking you?”

D’Ablo would bet all the money he has in his multiple bank accounts that Vlad won’t mention insulting a very nice suit . . . or resisting arrest.

Vlad swallows and lifts his chin. “I exist. That was reason enough.”

The room comes alive with murmurs and D’Ablo barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. Just a year ago these very same people were in favor of putting Vlad to death. Now they’re acting like Vlad’s treatment was some horrible ordeal the boy didn’t deserve, when in fact Vlad’s crime was -- is -- existing, a product of an illegal union.

It sounds harsh. But Tomas wasn’t around ( _ don’t lie to yourself, D’Ablo _ ) to face the consequences of his crime, so it fell on the child.

Hypocrites, all of them.

“Mister della Vega. Your side?”

“You acknowledged that I was merely doing my job. The law states that relationships between humans and vampires are forbidden and I was following the law. Vlad was resisting arrest and I took appropriate measures to detain him. Unfortunately, I failed because he disfigured me with the Lucis in order to get away.”  
“How come you get to claim self defense against _killing_ someone but when I defend myself it’s intentional disfigurement?” Vlad cries, eyes wide. D’Ablo rounds on him. “You intentionally pointed the weapon at me twice, knowing full well what it did, and fired. The first time may have been an accident, the second--” he shakes his prosthetic hand at Vlad-- “was not! I took desperate measures to spare my own life.”

“ _ You _ tackled me into the sunli--”

“GENTLEMEN!” Otis bellows, effectively silencing them both. Vlad and D’Ablo hold each other’s gazes for a moment longer before Vlad ducks his head and D’Ablo clears his throat.

Another council member speaks now. “I call Otis Otis to the stand.”

Again, the room bursts in murmurs as Otis stands and sheds his judge’s robes, draping them over the back of his chair. He takes Vlad’s place at the stand. No one takes his place, though it’s clear that it’s the woman to his right that has taken over. D’Ablo feels the blood drain from his face.

“Mr. Otis,” she begins, “do you feel you are able to testify on your own behalf tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that if at any point you feel you are unable to testify, your nephew will testify in your place?”  
“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can you confirm that Mister della Vega subjected you to ten months of physical torture -- deep lacerations caused by a knife -- and mental torture, via food and sleep deprivation?”

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you to heal?”  
“It took two months for a full physical recovery.”

“Mental?”

Otis swallows, suddenly looking ten years older. “I don’t know. I still have nightmares.”

Then he turns his head, and D’Ablo finds their eyes meeting. Another set of eyes to add to the eyes of all the people in this room. And though he loves being in the spotlight, likes being the center of attention, this is too much. He drops his gaze from Otis’, knuckles turning white as he clenches his fist.

“Mister della Vega, do you deny those claims?”

“No.”

“So you admit to months of subjecting Mr. Otis to unjust torture, which falls under both the charges of assault and battery?”  
“Yes.”

“Very well. The council calls a recess in order to determine your sentence.”

Otis leaves the stand and meets someone halfway to put on his robes. D’Ablo sits heavily as people shuffle out of the room, some chatting, some staring at him hatefully, some pityingly. Dorian walks over, smiling. “You’re fucked.”

“As long as it’s not by you,” D’Ablo shoots back.

Dorian tilts his head. “If you didn't disgust me so much, that would have given me an idea.”

D’Ablo scoffs. “Having a vampire blood slave -- or otherwise -- is illegal. And Otis doesn’t bow and scrape to you. If you suggest that he’ll shut you down.”

Dorian purses his lips. “Oh, I don’t know . . . if you knew what they were considering, I’m sure you would be  _ begging _ at my feet to--”

Lucky for Dorian, one of the bailiffs interrupts him (“no harassing the defendant”) because D’Ablo was about to leap from his chair and cave his face in. Dorian rolls his eyes and walks away.

All D’Ablo can do is wait and pretend he doesn’t feel Vlad’s gaze on him, that Dorian’s smug certainty doesn’t bother him.

Twenty agonizing minutes later, the council sweeps back in and D’Ablo straightens in his seat. The audience waits with baited breath-- D’Ablo has to force himself to inhale and exhale. He feels like iron bars are tightening around his lungs.

After what feels like an eternity the council is seated. Otis shuffles his papers for a long time, looking like he wants to stall. D’Ablo’s mind races, coming up with any potential torture he can be subjected to, and how he can mentally brace himself for it.

At long last, Otis speaks. “D’Ablo della Vega, you have been found guilty of the repeated assault and battery of fellow vampires. On these charges, the council sentences you to . . .”

this is it. This is the moment Otis says  _ severe physical punishment _ , the council’s nice code term for torture, or  _ execution _ , which speaks for itself--

“Banishment.”

D’Ablo’s blood turns to ice in his veins. He lifts his head, eyes wide with shock and filled with fear. When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “What?”

“You are hereby banished from Elysia. In the week that follows we will be making the appropriate arrangements. The removal of your Mark, where you are to live, what vampires you are authorized to make contact with, what jobs you are permitted to take to make a living without compromising Elysia.”

All of those procedures are familiar. D’Ablo can recite them in his sleep. But that doesn’t make his sentence easier to understand. “But--” he starts, but the bailiffs, who before were respectful of his comfort, gentle even, now have a vise-like grip on his upper arms and are yanking him from his seat, dragging him to the doors. He’s nothing now, no better than a human . . . perhaps even lower.

“No, no, no no no no Otis, don’t-- please-- no, not my Mark--” his tie to his family, his tie to his home for the last  _ five centuries _ , burned off-- “please, take my house! My money! Belongings, anything-- put me on house arrest! Torture! Please don’t take my Mark-- Otis! OTIS!”

Otis doesn’t look at him, head bowed over his papers, but Vlad is, horrified at how D’Ablo’s begging, D’Ablo, how never begs for anything but his life, and now he’s completely lost control as his voice gets louder and louder and then Dorian swoops in, extending soothing hands and D’Ablo screams “ _ DON’T YOU  _ **_FUCKING_ ** _ TOUCH ME!” _ and keeps screaming for a different sentence until one of the bailiffs, unable to restrain him any longer, gives a ferocious chop to D’Ablo’s neck and everything goes black.


	7. Chapter 7

What he would give for a stiff drink right now. Or two. Or several. Enough to justify the numbness in his chest. D’Ablo isn’t one to give up easily but now he has, reduced to a ball curled under his sheets, rocking back and forth, shock rolling off of him in waves. He’d woken up flopped on the bed -- likely tossed unceremoniously onto it by Grumpy One and Two -- and had immediately burrowed under the comforter, pillow over his head as he screamed his frustration and fear until his voice was so hoarse that the screams sounded like choppy exhales. Then he’d gone silent, not relaxing his body from the fetal position as Tomas’ funeral and his trial replay over and over in his head, thinking what he could have done differently, what he should have seen coming ( _ returning from Norway; STUPID, STUPID _ ), anything that would have gotten him a sentence other than banishment.

The argument with Vlad in front of a council that wholly disliked him and would decide his fate. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,

There’s a quiet knock on the door but D’Ablo makes no move to go open it. It’s locked from the outside. He’s a prisoner in his own council. In what  _ was _ his own council.

The lock clicks and he can picture the door swinging open though he can’t hear it, whoever his visitor is approaching without making a sound on the plush carpet. He doesn’t give a sign that he notices the bed dipping under the person’s weight, but he flinches when they put a hand on his shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze.

“Have you considered my offer?” Dorian asks.

D’Ablo bristles with rage. He flings the covers off of himself, rolling over and sitting up to face the other vampire. “Are you  _ fucking _ with me?!” He shoves Dorian off the bed. “I have no patience for you or your games, you son of a bitch!”

Dorian smiles -- satisfied that he can still get a rise out of D’Ablo, he’ll bet. “You-- you piece of--  _ you _ planted that idea in their heads! You suggest banishment!” D’Ablo knows, he just  _ knows _ , something in how smug Dorian looks, how  _ proud of himself _ , like he’s patting himself on the back-- “you’ve always hated me and you had the chance to get rid--”

Dorian’s hand cracks across his cheek and D’Ablo almost topples over, but he catches himself at the last second, the lightning pain fading instantly to a ferocious sting. A split second later he lunges at Dorian with a furious howl.

Dorian darts back and D’Ablo lands where he was, but he’s quick to recover and tackles him to the floor, scrambling to straddle Dorian’s chest and punching him in the mouth repeatedly, Dorian’s fangs cutting into D’Ablo’s knuckles and his own lips and making his hand slick with blood. Dorian strikes him in the sternum, still sore from when Vikas shattered it a week ago (God, only a week), but D’Ablo doesn’t let that deter him even as stars dance in front of his eyes and he grabs a fistful of Dorian’s copper hair -- he’s never hated a color more --  and slams his head on the floor again and again until Dorian strikes him mercilessly in the groin.

D’Ablo coughs and goes white. Dorian shoves him off his chest and punches him in the face, stands and kicks him in the ribs twice before backing off. D’Ablo groans, his hand going from his groin to his ribs, seething with rage but unable to do that much about it. Dorian wipes blood from his lips and feels the back of his head gingerly. “Know that this is the last time I’ll allow you to put your hands -- hand -- on me.” His face then softens some. “Feeling better?”

Despite the pain, D’Ablo rolls his eyes. Yes. Now he’s hurting physically as well as mentally. Though his grief has now turned to anger, the blood roaring in his veins having cleared his head. “Help me,” he manages to grind out.

Dorian frowns. “What?”

“Help me.” D’Ablo pulls himself up painfully using the drawers. He’s desperate, asking Dorian for help, but now he can see the Keeper is his best bet. “Get me out of here. Help me escape-- I can lie low, I can hide somewhere else no one will ever find me, however long it takes to presume I’m dead--”

“You’re mad if you think--:”

“All you have to do is let me out of this room.” The door, behind Dorian. All Dorian has to do is open that heavy steel door and step aside. “I can take care of everything from there, I know this building like my own hand--”

“No.”

“I’ll repay you. Whatever you want.” D’Ablo grimaces at the desperate tinge in his voice, at the throbbing in his likely cracked ribs. If he’s leaving Elysia, he’s leaving on his own terms and his Mark still on his wrist. “My blood, whenever you want, as much as you want, when it’s safe. Anything you ask for, I can give. I have money-- bank accounts no one knows about--”

Dorian shakes his head, turns to the door. D’Ablo scrambles after him, bruised ribs throbbing with his every breath. “Dorian, please--” the door opens --  _ fuck it _ \-- D’Ablo lunges for it, manages to get his fingers around the edge before Dorian catches his neck, cutting off all air supply. “You,” the Keeper hisses, fangs bared, “will suffer your punishment like the others to whom you never showed mercy to.” His grip tightens, crushing D’Ablo’s windpipe. Then he lets go and D’Ablo drops to the floor, holding his neck. The door clicks shut as D’Ablo recovers and scrambles to it, pulling uselessly at the handle. “Dorian! DORIAN!” No response.

He’s done. He’s over. His last chance to live a normal life, to spare himself. D’Ablo takes a deep, shuddering breath and rests his forehead on the freezing metal, a sharp contrast to the hot tears slipping down his face.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The door to D’Ablo’s cell isn’t soundproofed, though it’s times like this Vlad wishes it were. Not only is it unnerving to hear D’Ablo offer himself up like a five course meal to Dorian in exchange for a favor, it’s downright disturbing to hear his nemesis’ wrenching sobs as he and Dorian walk down the hall until they’re out of earshot.

“You seem troubled,” Dorian says smoothly. Dried blood cakes his mouth and chin -- some his, some D’Ablo’s, Vlad guesses, judging from the knuckle-shaped bruises on Dorian’s cheek. He’d probably cut his lip on his teeth when D’Ablo had punched him and cut himself.

“Yeah.” Vlad’s silent for a moment. “Do you think I should talk to Otis?”

Dorian smiles lazily, rubbing at the blood on his face and causing some of it to flake off. “Why should you?”

“I don’t know . . . I think . . . banishment? It’s kind of going too far.” He gestures back the way they came. “I mean. What D’Ablo did? That isn’t healthy.”

To his surprise, Dorian laughs. “That man has never  _ been _ healthy. That back there was a bout of hysterics. He’ll adapt to this change, just like anyone who’s as emotionally stunted as he is will. He’ll fight it every step of the way, but he’ll adapt to having every aspect of his life being council knowledge.”

Somehow, Vlad doubts that will be the case. “What do you think about the sentence?”

“Oh, Vladimir.” Dorian shakes his head. “I don’t hand out justice. I have no say on how you decide. All I can do is . . . ah, strongly suggest things -- I didn’t in this case, if D’Ablo’s nonsense accusations are making you wonder -- but in the end, it’s up to the council. Otis made this decision. There’s no easy sentence for crimes of D’Ablo’s caliber. He just did what he thought was right.”

“But-- look at how D’Ablo’s handling it--”

“He’ll be handling it a lot worse once they burn his Mark off. Does the human justice system evaluate how well a murderer will handle himself in jail? No, they just convict. The law applies to everyone.” His brow furrows. “Are you feeling sorry for him?”

Vlad’s gaze hardens. “No.”

Dorian eyes him for a second, then nods. “How D’Ablo chooses to deal with this is his problem. He’s pulled himself through all sorts of unimaginable torment, he’ll pull himself out of this enough to be functional. Maybe not happy, but functional. If not,” he shrugs one shoulder, “his family will mourn him, but life goes on. The world doesn’t stop for one vampire.”

Somehow, Vlad isn’t all that reassured. But all he does is lower his gaze to his shoes.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing D’Ablo notices when he walks into the room where his identity will be torn from him is how chilly it is. Everyone else is wearing sweaters, jackets, and in the council’s case, dress clothes; he’s sleeveless. His Mark has to be burned off, but God forbid he burn up with it. They don’t want to risk his clothing catching fire.

He hates all the people in this room with burning passion.

The same bailiffs -- Grumpy One and Two, though D’Ablo has mentally renamed them Asshat One and Two -- have a bruising grip on his upper arms as they drag him along, all the way to a low table at the center of the room. It’s made of metal, with two straps the will go over the heel of his palm and the far end of his forearm, framing the black ink on his wrist. D’Ablo lets himself be led, not actively dragging his feet, but not walking any faster than a leisurely stroll.

They’ve reached the table. At this point some criminals drop to their knees and stoically place their arm on the table without being prompted, looking sick but holding their chin high, wanting to get the worst done. Others beg loudly for any other sentence while they’re forcibly strapped down and their pleas melt into screams once their flesh starts burning. Others just stare blankly into space, not reacting to any touch or movement until they too start screaming when they burn.

D’Ablo would like to think that he is of the first group, the ones who stand tall and keep their backs straight and would sooner bite their tongues off than scream. He’s told himself, on those days that he questioned himself (everyone has moments of insecurity and uncertainty. The Stokerton Council president was no exception), on those  _ what if _ moments, that if he ever gets to this point he won’t scream or beg. He would take action like he’s always done and get the burning over with.

But he just stares at the table until the two guards hit the backs of his knees, causing him to kneel heavily. He’s silent as they strap his arm down, fingers relaxed and curling limply, not even trembling. He stares at the ink on his wrist, at the jumble of dashes and lines in parentheses -- his vampire name,  _ who he is _ , not his human name, it was like his body had just  _ known _ when this Mark formed -- black against white skin, dark against faint blue veins, memorizing it, truly looking at it for the first time since he was a fledgling, when he forgot it was there and started whenever he caught of glimpse of it under his sleeve but then remembered he was part of something  _ bigger, better, stronger, _ something . . .

Something that he won’t have anymore. It’s going to be taken away from him in the next five minutes. A fragile bond but stronger than any bond, broken and burned and its ashes spread so thinly D’Ablo wouldn’t know if they slipped through his fingers.

A click from up above, a beam of sunlight that illuminates his Mark. Warm, bright. Deadly.

D’Ablo bites his tongue.

For a second, nothing happens. Then the skin blisters pink, blackens and bursts into flame.

D’Ablo still bites his tongue, staring as the flame as if mesmerized.

That’s when the pain starts.

A sharp yank at his core, nowhere near his wrist where it should be hurting, that feels like someone has tied a rope around his organs and is now pulling him roughly with all the strength in their body. D’Ablo lurches forward, almost cracking his skull on the table but the guards pull him upright. Now, inside him, whatever had yanked so hard crunches and -- it’s stretching, too much, too much, hot under his heart, burning -- oh God,  _ agony _ boiling his heart his lungs which are devoid of air (he’ll never know that he was screaming at the first pull in his core) melting his stomach kidneys vaporized internal organs a scalding mess and D’Ablo bows forward and his core keeps stretching out-- out away, the center of his very being torn away.

He tries to pull himself free of the straps as the fire blazes, yanking hard enough to dislocate his shoulder, blind with pain but somehow knowing that that’s where his  _ self _ is will go, his identity escaping thought he mass of blackened blistered skin at the end of his arm. He nearly pulls the table from the ground but the straps don’t give-- he can taste blood on his lips and in his mouth; at some point he’d nearly bitten clean through his tongue, shredded his cheek with his teeth, and his fangs had punctured deep gouges in his lower lip and still he screams and writhes as he feels his  _ self  _ slip away and tear into tiny pieces that he will never, ever collect and as the last dregs of his bond with Elysia slip scalding down his arm he releases a final, anguished wail.

It’s gone, it’s over,  _ he’s _ gone, why are they still burning him-- now unstrapped, free, the hole is plugged and it’s dark now, a sharp sting in his neck that he barely feels and everything goes black.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break from all the angst of the previous two chapters.

Vlad finds Otis outside of the room with his head between his knees, Dorian rubbing his back awkwardly (if Dorian can do anything in a way that qualified as awkward), looking unsure on how to comfort someone who just saw D’Ablo lose all control of himself and having to be sedated just to be escorted from the room.

“How did he do that,” Otis moans, voice low and thick with shock. “How did he watch something like that repeatedly when he was president? How  _ sick _ do you have to be?”

Behind Vlad comes the sharp, rapid click of high heels that signify the arrival of Stokerton’s vice president. Cristina stops in front of Otis, arms crossed, flushed cheeks on her ever unreadable expression the only sign that she’s furious. “He did not watch,” she says, voice soft as usual but still scaring Vlad more than if she’d shouted. “No one watched. No one wants to see that. Do you know that is the only punishment D’Ablo didn’t smile at?”

Vlad, Dorian, even Otis lifts his head to look at her strangely. Cristina spoke as if it was one of D’Ablo’s redeeming qualities that he didn’t like watching the banishment procedure, as if smiling when someone falls into a pit of stakes as a form of execution isn’t horrible in of itself.

Cristina then huffs, her facade cracking some, revealing that she is unusually agitated. Vlad knows that she’s an intimidating, serious woman. Seeing her this jittery is odd. “Point is, he never watched. And you,”  she rounds on Dorian, who plasters on his easy smile instantly, “don’t pretend you didn’t know exactly what banishment consisted of. You didn’t speak up. You didn’t warm anyone. So while Mister Council here may have handed down that sentence, D’Ablo’s blood is on your hands. Know, Ciotti, that this entire council believes such--”  _ except for Cratus, _ Vlad thinks, “and you’d better watch your step.”

“Madam, are you threatening me?” Dorian’s grin is jovial, but there is no denying the danger in his bared fangs.

Cristina draws back her lips too, revealing her own impressive set of fangs in a falsely polite smile. Vlad actually takes a step back. “Why yes, sir, I am. You don’t fool anyone with your complaints that you don’t have any influence in these affairs.”

Dorian stands, steps up to Cristina until their chests are almost touching. Cristina is a tall woman and she towers in her heels, but Dorian seems to dwarf her. “You know, darling, I saw the list and you’re not on it. I was considering pulling some strings -- God knows D’Ablo will need some mental support after that ordeal -- and getting you on it. But with the way you’re treating me I’m not sure I want to anymore.”

“I can pull my own strings, boy,” Cristina hisses, looking ready to lunge at his throat. Or his balls. “I don’t need an overgrown child to do it for me.”

“You could pull strings when Em was in power,” Dorian counters, “but not now and you know it--”

“You’re acting awfully cocky for someone who appealed to our generosity to hide the fact that you were still alive after being staked!”

Dorian opens his mouth to retaliate but finally Otis steps in. “BOTH OF YOU! That is  _ enough! _ ”

Cristina’s mask slams back down on her face. Dorian just looks surprised he got yelled at.

“Of course,” Cristina murmurs. “Pardon me.” She skirts around Dorian, her clicking heels the only sound in the hallway, long brown braid swinging over her hips. At the corner, she pauses. “Ciotti.”

“Yes.”

“Was his family on it? Anyone? María, Anneliese?”

Dorian shakes his head. Cristina looks back at Otis. “Recipe for disaster on D’Ablo’s part.”

“I’m on it,” Dorian says. Cristina frowns at him. Otis’ brow furrows. “You’re not.”

“I signed myself up,” the Keeper says cheerfully. “No worries, Cristina, I’ll make sure he remains a functional alcoholic.”

Her eyelid twitches, the Cristina equivalent of rolling her eyes. “I suppose that’s as much as I can ask for. Do your job well, Ciotti. I don’t want to have to take . . . measures.” She flicks her wrist and suddenly there’s long blade in her hand, glinting dangerously in the low light.

“Understood, madam.”

Cristina walks away. Vlad waits until he can’t hear her shoes anymore, then rounds on Dorian and Otis.

“Okay, what was that about? What list?” he asks at the same time Dorian says, “did you see that? She threatened me! Aren’t you going to do something about it?”

Otis shoots Dorian a dirty look before rubbing his forehead and answering Vlad. “The list of people -- vampires -- D’Ablo is allowed to have contact with. Right now, I am the only one on it.”

“And me,” Dorian pipes up. Otis rolls his eyes. “And Dorian. The rest of D’Ablo’s associates are too loyal to him, too dangerous--” he glances in the direction Cristina left-- “so I don’t know who else I can trust to place on it.”

Vlad nods. “So who are María and Anneliese?” He’s prepared to hear something along the lines of council members, then remembers that Cristina had asked about them in the context of  _ family _ . The fact that D’Ablo has a family had never occurred to him before now, and it’s a little hard to wrap his head around the fact that there are people who love the man like Otis loves Vlad.

“D’Ablo’s mother and older sister, respectively.” Otis looks nervous just thinking about them. “The de la Vegas are an elite family, mostly on the same level as Em but without the political power, and most of them are used to operating outside the council.”  _ Most of them _ . Vlad wonders how many D’Ablo clones could be running around without a check. “No one will take kindly to hearing they can’t see him. Anneliese herself is a loose cannon but it’s Ms. de la Vega -- María -- who worries me more. You never know how she’ll go about handling the news. She’s unpredictable.”

An image of two tall, heavily tattooed, muscular women with matching sneers dressed in spiked black leather and wearing steel-toed boots and brass knuckles swims into Vlad’s head. Though it doesn’t feel very accurate, the picture seems appropriate based on what he’s hearing.

“Functional alcoholic?” he finally asks, deciding it’s better not to dwell on the mystery women.

Dorian snorts. “That man could -- can -- drink anyone under the table except Em and Vikas. It’s impressive.” He shrugs. “At least until he bitches for eight hours about a hangover the night after.”

“It’s nothing to admire.” Otis looks pointedly at Vlad, then stands. Suddenly, he looks ten years older. “There’s still arrangements to be made. I trust you two can behave until everything is settled?” It’s directed mostly at Dorian, but Vlad nods anyway. Dorian only smiles. Otis walks away.

As soon as Otis turns the corner Dorian rounds on Vlad. “Mind accompanying me to my car?”

Vlad regards him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Nothing involving blood or ulterior motives. I have a present for D’Ablo.”

Vlad blinks. “A present?” Even if that isn’t weird enough: “Dorian, he’s probably still unconscious--”

“If he were awake he’d turn us both away, so that takes care of that.”

Vlad rubs his forehead and nods. Might as well. “Okay.”

Dorian’s car is oddly inconspicuous, a grey Honda Civic with tinted windows, which are oddly cracked open a tiny bit. Vlad was imagining something more along the lines of a bright red Ferrari. Dorian unlocks the car and tosses Vlad his keys, opening the door. “I’m going to need two hands for this demon--” he reaches inside and immediately draws back with a pained hiss, only to dive into the car again-- “get over here you little monster- ow! Stop that! You-- okay, now  _ come. Here! _ ” Vlad’s wondering what exactly Dorian is fighting with in there when the vampire resurfaces, this time holding a squirmy black cat. It’s the grumpiest looking cat Vlad has ever seen-- and right now it looks furious, puffed up to twice its size and hissing loudly, taking wild swipes at the air.

“This,” Dorian grunts, holding the cat at arm’s length, “is Andrew. Andy for short.” From the car hops another cat, a chubby British Longhair, who doesn’t seem at all disturbed by the intrusion and the commotion. “And that is Rachel.” Rachel yawns hugely and starts rubbing herself on Vlad’s shins, purring loudly. When Vlad looks into the car he sees kitty heaven -- a shredded blanket, a less shredded blanket, food, water, and a litter box. Dorian had covered the seats with something that one of the cats -- probably Andy -- had definitely attacked. Dorian shuts the door with his foot-- “lock it, please--” and starts heading back to the Stokerton council building.

“She’s smart,” he says, nodding at Rachel. “Just walk ahead of her and she’ll follow. This asshole, on the other hand,” he’s still holding Andy at arm’s length, and just as well because Andy looks determined to stretch his neck far enough to tear out Dorian’s throat, “is stupid so I’ll carry him. Lead the way to the infirmary Vladimir -- you know where it is, right? -- while I try not to get my hands eaten.”

Vlad starts walking and Rachel trots after him. Vlad reaches the glass double doors of the entrance and holds it open for Rachel to slip through, then wider for Dorian. Andy has given up his attempts to bite Dorian for now, but he’s still writhing as if he is possessed.

“You know cats don’t like to be held like that?”

“Rachel doesn’t mind. And this isn’t a cat. This is a furry Satan. He only gets along with D’Ablo.”

“D’Ablo.” Vlad pauses. “Wait.  _ They _ are the present?”

“These are  _ his _ cats. He probably thought Cristina adopted them after he left and she probably would have, but I got there first.” Dorian makes a face. “Andy never got used to me.”

“But he’s been gone for a year, they won’t remember him.”

“Cats can surprise you.”

They walk in silence the rest of the way to the infirmary. A nurse takes one look at them, then at the cats. Her eyes widen. “So that’s where they went!” Her face turns troubled and she glances over her shoulder. “Look, technically I’m not allowed to let anyone in here but . . .” she glances down at Rachel, then seems to take pity on Dorian, “ten minutes.”

“Should be more than enough,” Dorian grunts, then scurries in when the nurse opens the door. Vlad gives Rachel a nudge with his foot after she spends another ten seconds sniffing at plant. She gives him a baleful look and saunters past him.

The room is off-white and sterile, and inside D’Ablo’s still unconscious, white as the sheets he’s lying in. His skin is drawn and even in sleep his face is twisted in pain. He breathes shallowly but his eyelids flicker in deep sleep. Underneath the sheet, the lumps that are his hands (or are supposed to be) are different sizes -- one too small, ending too soon, the other too big, bulky with the bandages around his wrist.

Dorian drops Andy unceremoniously on D’Ablo’s chest and the cat’s fur immediately flattens out. Though D’Ablo’s breathing falters momentarily he doesn’t wake, even when Andy puts a paw on his throat to sniff at his face. Rachel hops up without being prompted and sniffs at D’Ablo’s face too, then kneads his stomach a little bit before settling down. Andy stops circling on D’Ablo’s chest and sits, turning lamp-like green eyes on them.

Dorian walks around the bed and lifts D’Ablo’s hand out from under the sheet. He then rests it on Rachel’s back, at least before Andy nudges her out of the way and pushes his own head under D’Ablo’s palm. The cat still looks grumpy, but now he’s purring happily, a little motor engine in his chest. Richel licks D’Ablo’s hand once and rests her chin on top of it. And, even if D’Ablo’s unconscious, his breathing slows, his face relaxing into an expression that isn’t torment.

“Goodbye, asshole,” Dorian mutters at Andy. “Won’t miss you.” He nudges Vlad out of the room. The nurse is standing right outside the door. “That’s what sweet of you. Can’t begin to imagine how much he missed them.”

Dorian smiles thinly and skirts around her. The nurse and Vlad are left alone for a second, but it’s long enough for him to ask, “is he going to be okay?”

She sighs. “That’s up to him to decide.” She shuts the door to D’Ablo’s room, a sort of protective seal, Vlad thinks. “Statistically, he’ll make it through. But he’s never had to handle something like banishment before. I wish I could be around to help but . . . well, rules are rules. Give him my regards. Tell him Leigh says hi.”

Vlad nods.

“Thank you.” She glances at the door again. “He’ll be fine.”

Vlad can’t deny that it sounds like she’s trying to reassure herself.


	9. Chapter 9

D’Ablo doesn’t need to see his reflection to know he looks like shit. He doesn’t need to see the black circles under his eyes to know that they’re there, that his face is hollow and sunken, his eyes bloodshot, skin an unhealthy grey tinge. He doesn’t need a mirror to know he’s lost weight in the month since he returned to Norway. He can see how bony his wrist is, even underneath the bandages that are keeping it from getting infected.

Even waking up to his cats on his chest hadn’t provided much comfort after his restless, drug-induced sleep. Screams of pain had pierced his dreams -- his screams -- flames licking with their hot tongues up his body. He was burning as he dreamed, fire boiling skin and charring muscle and bone, eating through his wrist leaving him completely handless then through his abdomen -- skin and bones and muscles and organs and nerves all devoured by eternally-famished flames -- and that was when he woke up screaming; the only two things he registered before hands strapped him down to the bed and jammed a needle in his neck were Andy puffed up to twice his size and Rachel yowling in distress.

The second time he’d woken up freezing and sweating rivers, but not screaming, from dreams of empty faces and jeering voices that talked about him and around him but never to him. When he reached to the faceless people his hand went right through them without acknowledgment. They walked through him, never looking, never registering his touch, never speaking to him, but talking about him nonetheless. He woke up right before his dream self opened his mouth to scream that he existed, God damn it,  _ look _ at him!

D’Ablo doesn’t need a dream interpreter to know that the second dream is what his life will be like from now on. Not a member of Elysia, but not a human either. Something in between, unwanted. Isolated. Vampires services denied to him, human services not quite up to par. Forgotten the second he’s dropped off at wherever he’s supposed to live.

He walks slowly through the Stokerton Council building, never pausing but reluctantly dragging his feet and his suitcase, cats darting ahead and turning back to meet him. At the entrance to Elysia’s Stokerton he stops to stare up at the marble statue of the previous president, the woman who came before him, who’d died in the American Revolution and left him scrambling to put together the pieces of a council shattered without a leader. A proud, imposing woman, one of his first true friends.

What would she think of him now?

D’Ablo ducks his head. With a sigh, he turns his back to the statue and to his past life, accepting, though he doesn’t realize it yet, that it’s a door that will be shut on him forever.

Otis, Vlad, and Dorian are waiting in front of him outside, standing in front of a limousine -- he’s heading into exile with style, it seems -- and as D’Ablo approaches the driver comes around and takes his suitcase. As the man heads to the trunk he opens a backseat door, revealing the plush leather seats inside, D’Ablo suppresses the shiver crawling up his spine -- the open door almost looks like a mouth opened wide to devour him whole -- and walks over. He clicks his tongue and the cats quit their curious sniffing of the outside of the car and dart in. Casting a final glance at the Stokerton Council building, D’Ablo slips in after them.

The ride is silent. Vlad had a moment where he couldn’t decide whether to sit across from D’Ablo or on the same side as him, eventually deciding on the latter because, D’Ablo thinks, it would be less awkward to not have to look at him. The boy pats Rachel uncomfortably, looking hilariously unsure what to make of the affection on the part of one of  _ D’Ablo’s _ cats. D’Ablo would tell him that Rachel’s friendly to everyone but since the expression on Vlad’s face suggests he’s frightened of having his fingers bitten off by the cat at any second is too good. In fact, it’s the most amusing thing about the entire journey.

Andy plops himself on D’Ablo’s lap and fixes his green-lantern stare on Dorian the entire time. Dorian only glances up from his phone to glare at the cat -- shame D’Ablo wasn’t awake to see the scratches and bites on Dorian’s arms -- then to roll his eyes and continues texting.  _ Who _ the Keeper could possibly be texting D’Ablo can’t imagine, as the Keeper has even less friends than D’Ablo does. Did. Whatever.

Eventually Vlad’s awkwardness gets boring and D’Ablo settles for looking out the window, since listening to Otis give directions to the driver is sleep-inducing. After a few twists and turns D’Ablo realizes they’re heading to the so-called “bad” part of town -- the one with gangs and a not-vampire-related murder every week. In fact, as they head to the area and the houses turn more and more decrepit, Dorian lets out a low whistles. “From riches to rags.”

D’Ablo shoots him a dirty look which Dorian pointedly ignores.

The limousine parks in front of a house -- thankfully a house, as haggling with the landlord in Norway for the apartment rent was annoying enough -- that is not as ruined as the others. D’Ablo notes the lack of space for an adequate garden with disappointment, then remembers that anything he plants will be killed by bored teenagers anyway.

Vlad gets out of the car, looking ready to crawl out of his skin -- poor baby, never been outside the safety of his little circle of friends, guardians, and D’Ablo’s occasional intrusions -- and D’Ablo follows him, standing outside and regarding the  façade  of the house with a slightly crinkled nose to communicate his displeasure.

“Your furniture’s already inside,” Otis says, handing him a set of keys. “Dorian and I both have copies. If you change a lock you have to let us know--”

“I am perfectly familiar with the procedure of banishment, Otis,” D’Ablo snaps. “Let you know if I change the locks lest I suffer repercussions because you require undenied access to every aspect of my life, including how many dust mites there are under my bed-- you want to help me count them? Speak only to the vampires listed with the exceptions of the necessities like cashiers, mechanics, doctors. If I see a doctor I must send you a report detailing why, when, and what was recommended. If I am in the process of obtaining a driver’s license I must alert you  _ whenever _ I take a car, and if I happen to vacation I need to give you my full itinerary and follow it by the letter. Anything else, or did I forget reporting how many gallons of water I use per week down to the last drop?”

Otis scowls. “We’ll leave you to get settled.”  
“How kind of you,” D’Ablo grinds out.

The car door slams in response, followed by Vlad’s door closing and the car starting. Dorian claps a hand on D’Ablo’s shoulder which D’Ablo shakes off. “We already stocked it with groceries yesterday.”

“Want a boy scout badge?”

The Keeper rolls his eyes -- “you take care” -- and gets into the limo. With a crunch of gravel the car drives offf.

D’Ablo stares after it, then huffs and turns to face the house again, climbing the rickety steps to the front door. The key turns rustily in the lock -- it’ll need to be oiled -- and the door swings open with a creak.

The inside is the polar opposite of the outside. It’s clean, for one. Floor tiles gleam and there isn’t a speck of dust anywhere. There’s electricity -- the fridge is running and when D’Ablo flicks a switch the lights turn on. The walls are freshly painted a pale blue-- what is he? A little boy? The cats dart between his feet and start exploring, tails high and shoulders hunched, noses to the floor. In the next room is their kitty bed, litter box, and an unused scratching post; the cats favor the couch, which is also in the room, in front of a little coffee table that used to explode with papers at his old house. It’s bare now.

D’Ablo doesn’t go upstairs but he can imagine that his bed is in the farthest room of the hallway. It’s clear just from the lower floor that the movers tried to model the arrangement of this house after his old one. He’s willing to bet that if he goes into the kitchen, pots and pans will be approximately in the same place and that he’ll find the spice drawer on his first try.

He does go into the kitchen, crouching in front of a few unpacked boxes and opening one. He knows that they contain non-perishable items. Canned food, pasta . . . alcohol. Please let there be a bottle of good, strong scotch.

There’s nothing in the boxes that he’s looking for so D’Ablo tears through the cabinets, sighing with relief when he finds a bottle of whiskey on his third try. It’s not scotch, but it’ll do. It’ll  _ definitely _ do.

He doesn’t bother with a glass and instead tips the drink in his mouth, guzzling half the burning liquid in one go. He pauses to take a breath and leans against the counter, holding the bottle up to the light. He’s vaguely aware of the tears streaking down his cheeks -- when did those start? -- and so he drinks another quarter, then finishes it off completely. His nose is stuffy when D’Ablo sets the empty bottle down and digs through the cabinet again, this time producing some bourbon. Is mixing alcohol deadly? Or is it drugs and alcohol?

“Who the fuck cares?” he laughs, and tips his head back. The bourbon vanishes instantly down his throat and D’Ablo sets the bottle down next to the whiskey. The vodka makes the pleasant buzz in his head turn into full blown numbness. He’s not drunk enough, though. Not yet.

The vodka rolls at his feet, soon joined by another whiskey, two cans of beer, and half a wine bottle. D’Ablo follows soon after, crumpling to the floor, vision swimming.

Throughout all that, he’s crying. He just doesn’t realize it.


	10. Chapter 10

When D’Ablo wakes, he is first aware of how stuffy his nose is, how scratchy his eyes are, how the cold tile pressing into his cheek feels  _ so good _ . . . and then his hangover slams into him like a freight train.

He groans and curls up tighter on the floor, holding his head, which feels like a giant is drilling holes into it with a jackhammer, and then dancing. His knee bumps the half-empty bottle of wine, causing it to slosh onto his pants. Almost unconsciously, D’Ablo reaches for it -- no use letting good wine go to waste -- except when he tries to sit up his stomach flips on itself and he vomits all over his lap. He retches again, clawing himself up to standing in front of the sink, all the drink from yesterday spilling heavily from his mouth into the metal basin. Five minutes later there’s nothing more to vomit, not even bile, but he’s dry heaving and his body doesn’t seem to want to quit. Another loud retch masks the sound of the door opening -- he hadn’t locked it last night -- but he hears “Jesus” loud and clear, right up until his stomach lurches again and nearly sends him face first into the sink.

Water runs, washing down the residue of alcohol, bile, and what little blood D’Ablo consumed yesterday and he stares, fascinated, as it fills a glass and someone’s cool hand brushes his hair back from his sweaty forehead. Dorian’s voice swims up from the pounding in his head, “drink, you’re dehydrated.” D’Ablo retches again before obeying, letting Dorian press the glass to his lips, tilt his head back. Some water sloshes out the sides of his mouth, running cool paths down his heated skin (“you’re sick, too, that’s just perfect, did you change your bandage?” D’Ablo shakes his head) and when he finishes he bows forward, trying to breathe.

Dorian doesn’t allow him much of a reprieve because he’s already gathering D’Ablo up, pulling him upstairs. The bathroom light turns on and D’Ablo yelps as it pierces his eyes. Even after closing them it’s too bright and it stabs at his brain mercilessly. “Make it stop,” he whines, but Dorian either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. Water runs into the bathtub, as loud as thunder, then turns off along with the light. Dorian’s hands pull at his clothing-- “let’s get these off--” and D’Ablo pulls away from him, somehow embarrassed.

Dorian huffs. “I’d leave you alone if I thought you could take a bath without drowning yourself, but I don’t. If you can’t be left alone for twelve hours without drinking enough to kill an elephant, you don’t get the luxury of modesty. Now take them off or let me.”

D’Ablo’s face flushes and he avoids Dorian’s eyes (easy, since the only way for him to not feel sick is with his head between his knees), but when Dorian pulls his shirt up D’Ablo doesn’t fight it. He ends up having to work on undressing D’Ablo by himself, because any movement whatsoever makes D’Ablo’s head swim. The one indignity D’Ablo doesn’t suffer is having Dorian lift his hips to get his pants over his ass. He may not be capable of making good decisions, but he is perfectly capable of taking his own pants off. When D’Ablo is finally completely naked and shivering on the cold tiles Dorian heaves him unceremoniously into the tub.

“Cold!” D’Ablo yelps, scrambling to get out. “What the hell is your problem with warm water!”

“You’re sick and overheated. Now stop being a baby, it’s not that cold.”

D’Ablo glares up at him.

“I’m going to throw these into a hamper somewhere,” Dorian holds up D’Ablo’s discarded clothes, “and find you fresh bandages. Can I trust you to not do something stupid for two minutes?”

The expression on Dorian’s face makes D’Ablo want to duck underwater in shame, but he nods. Dorian turns on his heel and marches out, slamming the door shut with his foot. D’Ablo musters up the energy to call, “can you feed the cats?” but he doesn’t get an answer.

Left alone, D’Ablo closes his eyes and leans his head back on the cool porcelain of the tub, riding out the throbbing in his head. Then he opens his eyes and examines the bandage around his wrist. As he doesn’t have the fingers of his other hand to pick it off, he tears it with his teeth, shaking his wrist out to let the pieces fall onto the bath mat.

The skin where his Mark was isn’t infected, but it’s still angry red and blistered. Blood seeps where the bandages had ripped off the delicate new skin where it had started healing and he thinks, though maybe he’s just delirious, that he can see all the way to the muscles and tendons of his wrist. The area throbs, exposed to the cool air, and D’Ablo grits his teeth, letting his hand fall over the side of the tub. Even when all that heals over, he’ll never grow used to the lack of that thick black ink.

Footsteps announce Dorian’s arrival and the man walks in, holding a bathrobe and, as promised, fresh bandages. He also has a shampoo bottle.

“Where did you find that?”

“In the box in the living marked ‘toiletries’. Imagine that.” he glances down at the discarded bandages on the floor, then at D’Ablo’s bare wrist. “I’ll disinfect that first, then we’ll focus on getting you cleaned up.”

“‘We’?”

“We, as in, you will help me clean your body, unless you want my hand between your legs.  _ You _ will figure out how to quit your alcoholism.”

“It’s not alcoholism.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot that these days it’s called  _ coping _ .” D’Ablo has nothing to say to that. Dorian continues, “how’s your hangover?”

“I’m thirsty and everything hurts.”

“You brought it on yourself.”  
“Why did you even ask?”

“Etiquette dictates I ask ‘how do you do’ even when I don’t care.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“I love having people in my debt.”

D’Ablo goes pale. Dorian smiles. “It’ll be a while before I collect. At the moment you have nothing that I want.”

D’Ablo wonders what he ever had that Dorian would have wanted, outside of his good looks and being normal, but he says nothing. Dorian goes about disinfecting the wound on his wrist as if they hadn’t had the exchange.

When it’s freshly bandaged Dorian starts shampooing D’Ablo’s hair, rinsing him off, and in contrast to what he’d said barely three minutes before, washing D’Ablo’s body under the water (“if you get hard I’m leaving you to figure out how to do this without hands”, to which D’Ablo had sneered and told him not to flatter himself), all in silence except for that banter. He hands D’Ablo the bathrobe and D’Ablo stands on shaky legs and puts it on, head swimming momentarily. Dorian also grabs a toothbrush and goes for D’Ablo’s mouth.

“I can brush my own damn teeth.”

Dorian snorts. D’Ablo figures being treated like a child is some sort of karma for having called the Keeper a child thousands of times.

Thankfully Dorian only shoves D’Ablo in the direction of his bedroom before heading downstairs because at that point, with the vomiting and the hangover still pounding his head, and the bath and the effort put into sarcastic remarks, D’Ablo is far too tired to lift his arms, much less put on clothing and make small talk while dancing around the subject of the five bottles of various drinks and the beer cans littered on the kitchen floor.

D’Ablo stumbles to his bed and falls face down, asleep before he even hits the pillow.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When D’Ablo staggers back downstairs he expects to be alone but Dorian is still there, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth. “Your breakfast is in the fridge. Pop them in the microwave if you want them warm.”

D’Ablo finds the pancakes and puts them in the toaster instead. “Microwave makes them soggy.”

Dorian shrugs. When D’Ablo sits, he sits too. D’Ablo slowly brings a forkful of pancake to his mouth, eyes on Dorian the entire time.

“What happened yesterday--” Dorian starts.

“I know. It’s a one-time thing.”

“Not only that. What led you to that point was extremely stupid. I don’t care if you’re a functional alcoholic like you were when president -- don’t look at me like that, everyone knows about those flasks of whiskey you kept in the bottom left drawer of your desk -- but when you reach that level of pathetic . . . you  _ intentionally _ drank enough to poison three humans.”

“Well, I’m not human.” Suddenly, D’Ablo isn’t hungry. “And  _ I _ didn’t reduce  _ myself _ to that level. It was forced on me. It’s not my fault I’m no longer considered a true vampire.”

“No. The banishment was forced on you. The alcohol was not. How you’re dealing with your banishment is all you. Grieve however much you want. Cry, scream, punch concrete walls, see if I care. Punt children, that’ll probably make you feel better.” He waits for D’Ablo to grin. D’Ablo only scowls at him. He’d noticed Dorian hadn’t denied that D’Ablo is no longer a true vampire, and he isn’t happy with it.

Dorian sighs. “And, I don’t like speculating. Too uncertain. But what were you going to do I wasn’t here when you came down? Somehow I doubt you would have made yourself breakfast or gone hunting. You would have gone right to that drinks cabinet, right?”

“No.” D’Ablo says. It isn’t like his first thought upon waking is to drink. His first thought is that the room he’d woken up in wasn’t his. The second thing to cross his mind is to drink it all away. So, technically, he’s telling the truth.

Dorian just stares at him pityingly. “Lying to me won’t help you.” He stands. “Next time you reach for a bottle, try to consider if you want to spend all of tomorrow with your head in the toilet.” He grimaces and glances at the sink. “If you can even reach the toilet.”

The door swings shut behind him.

D’Ablo stands and heads over to the drinks cabinet. Amazingly, there’s still some full bottles, and enough cans of beer for a small army. It occurs to him what Dorian was trying to tell him: he wouldn’t baby D’Ablo. If D’Ablo wanted to self-destruct, Dorian couldn’t give two shits. It’s up to D’Ablo to keep himself from spiralling downwards.

D’Ablo eyes the bottles with apprehension.

Then he grabs one and drains it in the space of two minutes.

_ Fuck it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'Ablo no.


	11. Chapter 11

He’s developed a nice little routine since he moved in.

Wake up. Vomit. Drink. Stare blankly at the TV-- whether it’s on or not varies. Feed the cats, clean the litter box. Pet the cats when they demand attention (that’s where most of his energy goes). Drink himself to a stupor. Repeat.

Slight deviations for showers, when he can no longer stand how dirty he feels.

Even rarer deviations for hunting, when the reason that his stomach cramps isn’t his vomiting, but hunger.

All in all, a nice, comfortable, miserable, existence.

His wrist healed by week one in this new house, leaving only a pink, twisted lump of skin. D’Ablo’s taken to wrapping a piece of black cloth around it. He only takes it off to shower, or if it needs cleaning. Incidentally, laundry days are determined by when the cloth gets washed. They don’t happen very often.

There are still unpacked boxes all over the house. Visitors trip over them occasionally, but D’Ablo has learned to navigate around them. Not that he gets many visitors.

The groceries that were in the fridge when he’d first arrived all spoiled, releasing a foul smell. Dorian had groaned in disgust and cleaned them all out while D’Ablo lay limply on the couch, not lifting a finger to help and barely aware of what was going on around him. Dorian had slammed the door extra hard that night.

Even the gangs in the area have decided that D’Ablo isn’t worth harassing. It suits him just fine.

The only times D’Ablo cleans up -- himself and the house -- are the times when Otis visits. The man calls ahead, warns him he’ll be over. D’Ablo then drags himself around the house, throwing out trash and rearranging a few boxes to make it look like he’s made  _ some _ progress in unpacking. He does laundry and washes the bedsheets, takes a shower, dresses in clothing that conceal his dramatic weight loss-- weight he couldn’t afford to lose in the first place. He applies makeup to make himself look healthier. When Otis comes, D’Ablo drinks nothing or little-- three beers, or a glass of wine. When Otis leaves is when he goes to town. He thinks Otis calls ahead exactly so he can prepare. To spare whatever is left of D’Ablo’s dignity.

In all these three months, Vlad hasn’t visited once. Just as well. Seeing Otis as head of the council is bad enough. Seeing Vlad happy and alive, in college, with someone to love, surrounded by friends . . . D’Ablo’s afraid he couldn’t bear it. That should be him. Vlad’s happiness is his own failure shoved in his face. Having to see it in front of him, Vlad  _ living _ and  _ free _ . . . D’Ablo thinks it’ll destroy him.

He hasn’t realized that he’s already broken.

He’s lying on his side on the couch, very drunk, when the door opens. D’Ablo stumbles over to the entrance of the living room to be greeted by Dorian slipping off his shoes. “The fuck are you doing here?” he slurs.

Dorian sweeps past him, into the kitchen, holding a plastic grocery bag. “Making you another healthy lunch that you’re not going to eat.”

D’Ablo rolls his eyes and turns around to lumber into the living room, but he smacks his nose into the wall instead. He takes it as a sign to stay here. “Why?”

“Why do I bother?” Dorian shrugs. “Good question. You’re pathetic.”

“‘M not.”

“Yes. You are.”

“How.”

“Outside of the obvious . . .” there’s the round of rolling glass as Dorian kicks a bottle on the floor out of his way, “you don’t cook anymore. You’ve made no effort to make friends-- you’re allowed to make friends with humans, you know? -- Andy hurt his leg the other night and I was the the one to take him to a vet--”

“He did?” His cat had hurt himself and D’Ablo hadn’t even noticed. Maybe there is something wrong with him.

“Yes. He’s fine.” Dorian slams a jar of artichoke hearts down on the counter. D’Ablo flinches, swaying slightly. He steadies himself on the table, sits down when his legs prove to be too uncoordinated to keep him standing in this state.

“What else? Oh, yes. You haven’t found a job. You stare at a blank TV all day. A blank. TV. The liquor store down the street is getting rich off  _ your _ credit card. And if you were to be believed when you and Raúl bragged about your wild nights in sex clubs, I doubt you’ve gotten laid since you were released.”

“That. Is absolutely none of your business.”

“No,” Dorian agrees. “It’s not. But sex is a workout, and your muscles are atrophying right in front of me. Sex means that you’re at least meeting new people, and it’s clear you’re not. You’re falling apart. Pathetic enough for you?”

D’Ablo scowls.

“And, oh, let’s add that if you were normal you’d have cursed me out of the house.”

D’Ablo can’t even bring himself to be angry.

“And since you decided to give up on life, I haven’t had sex either. It’s like people can smell you on me, and they don’t like what they smell. Pathetic stinks worse than anything.”

A dim thought swims into D’Ablo’s alcohol-clouded mind. “Do you want to have sex?” he murmurs.

“What?”

D’Ablo repeats the question, but still too quietly. Dorian can’t hear him over his knife on the chopping board and rounds on him. “What did you say?”

“Do you want to have sex?”

“Of  _ course _ I want to have sex!” Dorian snaps. “Is your brain atrophying along with your muscles?”

“No, no. Do you want to have sex with me?” If he were sober, D’Ablo would never have let those words pass his lips. If he were  _ himself _ , and not this shell of himself, D’Ablo would have admitted that Dorian is a very attractive man, but their intense -- and not to mention mutual -- dislike of each other wouldn’t have taken it any further than that.

If he were sober, he wouldn’t be offering himself to Dorian.

If he were sober, he wouldn’t be offended that Dorian is refusing.

Not only refusing, but sighing in disgust. “You’re drunk.”

“So?” D’Ablo stands on shaky legs. Dorian shoves him back in his seat. D’Ablo grabs his forearm. “So, you’re right. I haven’t fucked anyone since before I got arrested. You’re complaining you haven’t fucked in a while. So let’s fuck.”

Dorian stares at him incredulously and pulls out another chair, as if preparing himself for a long morning of reasoning with an unreasonable child. “You’re  _ drunk _ . You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I know exactly what I’m saying. Let’s fuck. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

Dorian rolls his eyes and starts to stand, but D’Ablo darts into his lap, taking his face between his hand and stump. He doesn’t bother with the fake anymore. “Please?” He starts grinding his hips downwards, hoping for a reaction.

He gets one. Dorian shoves him off and D’Ablo goes sprawling. “I’m not so desperate to have sex with someone who isn’t in his right mind.”

D’Ablo turns over onto his stomach, so uncoordinated that it takes him a few seconds. His face is flushed and, unbeknownst to him, tears streak down his cheeks. “Am I so easy to abandon?”

Dorian pauses in the middle of pulling his jacket on. “What?”

“Am I so easy to abandon?” D’Ablo struggles to his knees. “Elysia doesn’t want me. My own family doesn’t want me.”

“You know they can’t call--”

“They  _ can _ call!” D’Ablo cries. “They all have their ways! They would call if they cared! They don’t  _ fucking _ care, they don’t want me! You don’t want me! Am I so undesirable now? I don’t have any power, any influence, and that’s that, isn’t it? I’m not worth anyone’s fucking time!”

Dorian is stunned silent, only able to stare. D’Ablo fixes bloodshot eyes on him. “You all laugh, don’t you. You all  _ fucking _ laugh. You come here and when you leave you laugh at poor little drunk D’Ablo who can’t even  _ stand _ by himself--”

“That’s not true.” Dorian slowly approaches him, kneels in front of him. “We don’t-- we’re here to help. No one laughs . . . “ he extends gentle hands, brushes D’Ablo’s shoulder. D’Ablo flinches and slaps his hand away.

“No. You don't’ get to touch me. You don’t get to reject me and act like we’re friends. Get out.”

Dorian blinks. “You’re drunk. It’s the alcohol taking. Come on, let’s get you to bed.” Again he extends his hands and again D’Ablo draws back, but this time his eyes blaze with fury. “I said,  _ get. Out. _ ”

“Come on, D’Ablo, you’re not--”  
  
“OUT!” D’Ablo swings his hand and Dorian scrambles back to avoid being hit. D’Ablo may have lost weight, he may be thin and frail and tired, but a backhand from him could still, at the very least, break Dorian’s cheekbone. “Get the _fuck!! Out!!!_ ” D’Ablo pulls himself up using the table, but by the time he’s accomplished that, Dorian has stood and straightened his jacket, turned on his heel and opened the door. Still D’Ablo screams after him, unintelligible words, only a few truly distinguishable: “-- out -- “ “--alone! And you--” “--fucking LAUGH!” “Leave, like everyone else!” “--fucking useless, you fucking freak, I’m a damn FREAK, just like you--”

At that, Dorian turns and regards him coolly. D’Ablo falters under that icy glare and then Dorian slams the door, rattling the walls and windows. A moment later D’Ablo hears the screech of tires. After that, the only sound is D’Ablo’s hoarse, heavy breathing. He falls to his knees, wide-eyed, numbly reaching for the bottle on the table except he knocks it down and it shatters. He curses softly and goes to pick up the pieces, but he’s clumsy, the balance he found to scream at Dorian gone and he almost tips over onto his face, hand shooting out to catch himself, a large shard slicing into his palm. D’Ablo hisses and yanks his hand back but it’s too late, blood’s flowing freely. He doesn’t need to be sober to know that it’s too deep for his vampire healing, compromised because of his weak, malnourished state, to take care of.

He stands with difficulty, blood flowing from his hand down to his elbow, dripping onto the floor. He grits his teeth and opens the bathroom door. He’s about to bend to find bandages -- the best he can do without another hand to stitch the wound up himself -- when he notices his reflection. He falters.

His eyes are wide and haunted, sunken deep into his eye sockets, sclera bloodshot and irises filmy. His jaw and cheekbones, already sharp and well-defined when he was healthy, are too visible, unnerving to look at. His face alone screams sickness. His wrist is a skeleton’s, his arms too thin-- when was the last time he ate? A month ago. But his body rejected the blood, no longer accustomed to rich nutrients, so three months ago-- he doesn’t need to lift his shirt to know he can count his ribs. Or lower the waistband of his pants to know that his already-prominent hip bones jut out too much, that his is skin stretched over a hollow abdomen. His hair is thin and fly-away, a far cry from the healthy, waist-length tresses from a year ago.

His blood boils. His heart beats faster, it thunders in his ears, as loathing builds up inside him. He wants it go away, that  _ ghoul _ , that grey-skinned creature in the mirror. That’s not him. That’s what Otis made. It’s Otis’ creation, Otis and Vlad, they tore D’Ablo apart and made him into  _ this _ , this foul, ugly man in front of him. He sees red, blotting out his reflection, but the ghoul is still there and he wants it  _ gone. _

He doesn’t realize that his hand curls into a fist, fingers slick with the blood still streaming from his palm. He doesn’t recognize his fist flying at his face in the mirror. He doesn’t hear the glass shatter, nor does he see the cracks that distort his face beyond recognition. He can only scream. Scream and pound the glass over and over and over until the searing pain snaps him out of it, back into reality, into sobriety, horror washing over him in a freezing wave.

At least his reflection is gone.

D’Ablo sinks to his knees, holding his injured hand, his only hand, useless now, afraid to look at it, but feeling the hot blood pumping from his skin, soaking his shirt.

He sobs.


End file.
